How much I love you is a mystery

of common place things and mutual dreams:

a stone home and woodstove,

bacon and hot tea; your tears running

fresh mascara, and coffee in the morning.

How much I love you is not written in the stars;

it is whispered by the wild white pine

alone by the stream.

How much I love you is not the red rose’s

petals that grow in the green-glassed house.

How much I love you is the brambles

that thorn through my old blue jeans

when I got lost: I follow the stream’s

ripple to get back to the car.

How much I love you

is in the cuts on my legs,

by vegetable claws that saw

through soft denim. 

Image via Wikipedia