No part of me has ever been likened to a gazelle
or a dove, or a fawn, and I'm not sure
what it means to have a nose like a tower
of Lebanon or locks anything like purple threads.

My love does not have eyes as black as raven
nor are his legs pillars of alabaster.
His mouth is not always full of sweetness.

The garden we are raising is small by most standards;
there is nothing grand or golden, no balsam or lilies,
and we share strawberries instead of pomegranates.
But I know what it is to imagine his absence
and be afraid, and I know what it is to be loved.

Our garden is small, but we can share the sights,
smells, sounds, and tastes of it, and we can get
a tiny glimpse of the paradise that might have been,
recreated in a faint murmur like a mother's love, in
comfort like a father's hand under my head.

We have climbed together to the ridges of mountains
and have felt awesomely connected to this
earth and undeniably detached from it, at once.
Inextricably bound to each other, yet alien, at once.

What is the meaning of things, plants, animals, places,
without love? What is the joy of metaphor, of cadence,
of music, of solitude, without the innuendo?

We come to the banquet as invited guests, no more
or less than those who came before: we ache, yet
are satisfied. We grieve and we fear. We stand
on our own. We cling to each other. We are
thoughtless and weak. We delight and affirm.

We are a fair way past young and sometimes we are
scared to death of time. So I am not the Shulammite
maiden, and my love is certainly no king.

But in our little garden or on some majestic
mountain overlook, I trust in the promise we made
and can say it simply now, no longer giddy with analogy,
that this is my beloved and this is my friend.