Shakespeare says his love is greater than a
summer's day,
but my love is deeper than
the stillness of a
cloudless winter's night:
I feel my love in a heartfelt apology.

My love is not a flower, wilting.
She's a symphony,
turning and twisting.
A throb of chords,
shocking and free.

My love is not a dog from hell.
She's a river,
carving herself on the earth
as she makes her way to the sea.

My love is not an infinite ache.
She's the warmth of the sun on my skin,
or, in autumn, a sip of fresh tea.