I know it may be an unusual time for a love poem.
But rain is hitting the roof tiles like piano keys,
the scent of coffee beans wakes me up slowly, and somehow, you make me feel innocent again.
I wince at all of the versions of me that have led to present tense.
But somehow, I already know you won’t mind.
I won’t tell you yet about where I’ve been
but you’ll smile when I say I think winter is the prettiest time to watch things grow.
How unexpected, you and the flowers both.