Let me count the ways.
I word thee as the flowers speak to sunlight’s life-giving photon packets,
To the depths of the molten core inside the planet,
To the heights of the mute blackness beyond our atmosphere.
I word thee freely as laissez-faire,
Hungrily as wolves devouring freshly hunted rabbits,
Intensely as blood pumping through the femoral artery,
Truly as the complete silence inside a vacuum.
I word thee more when thy skin is enveloped in my breath,
When thy voice is transmitted through my tympanic membrane,
When thy scent is absorbed into strands of my hair.
I word thee without ownership or calculation or concrete barriers.
I word thee without saying the words that devalue our separateness.
I shall continue to word thee until the language dries up
As August creek irregular polygon borders thickly stroked
The utter quiet telling stories of our word of the past.