She said
“I think I don’t have the capacity for love”
I said
“Don’t think on love but feel it”

She said
“I feel love not inside of me”
I said
“How strange that I can see it”

She said
“How is this so? That you can see what I can’t feel?”
I said
“Because it shows, it’s evident, it’s real.
I see it clearly on your face,
I see it in your grin.
I see it when you look at friends,
in the creases of your eyes
the upticked corners of your smile,
I see it in your dimples,
in the flashes of your brow,
I see it in your forehead,
lines of laughter redrawn often.
I see it where you least expect
when your features knit, your heart, it softens”

She said
“Is this love? My visage? Why would I carry feelings here?”
I said
“Indeed I do not know, but the evidence is clear.
Perhaps this is where love hides itself-
is stored and then revealed.
Perhaps our wrinkles hold our hearts
to be kept and then unsealed.
Don’t think too hard, on love my dear
it will happen by and by,
the wrinkles in your face will grow
love to hold, love to show.”

She looked at me with knotted brow,
a stern concerted face;
evaluating what to say
to better voice her case,
and then her lips flicked, just a touch,
a crisp new pleat appeared,
and with a smile, she confessed
“I do love you my dear”