I want to propose to adventure.

I’d always dreamed of a love like ours,
my imagination running wild
until our first date, on the streets of Paris
when I was fifteen and knew only enough French
to order a croissant and hot chocolate for breakfast.

Adventure wooed me,
and we began our life together,
making the best memories
a double rainbow over the Yaeda Valley in Tanzania
and a horseback ride on a cliffside of Hawaii.
Playing tag with Maasai children at sunset,
me, bright in the kanga my mama gave me,
her jewelry jingling around my neck
and the sky turning amber,
the air punctuated with giggling Swahili shrieks
This is the beginning of our family.

Our backyard is the vineyards of Siena, Italy,
miles of a rolling green that looks somehow antique.
We’ve gone dancing in clubs of Kenya,
ignoring stares at the mzungu
because our love knows no ethnicity.
We’ve learned the storms of different continents,
Whirlwinds of dust blowing across Tarangire National Park
with giraffes trying to outpace it.
Unexpected snow in northern France
that shuts down railroads and airports.
Gentle but persistent rains in
the redwoods of California
that crawl down the trunks of skyscraper trees
and sneak into our tent.

I want to follow adventure to
every body of water.
They have to invent new crayons
just to describe all those blues.
Maybe for our honeymoon,
we’ll discover the sounds of an Amazon jungle,
or trace the footprints of the first democracy.

Adventure is fluent in languages
I’ve never heard of,
but I want to learn,
to curl my tongue around new vowels and
habituate my ears to the dissonance of unfamiliar consonants.
I’ll write my vows in Cherokee
and shout my love from the tops of the Himalayas.

Til death do us part.