I hope you won’t lose patience if
every four-and-a-half weeks, like clockwork,
I ask you to put your arms around me
and repeat yourself, recite the lines
of your love. Indulge me this ritual,
a tithing toward our forever.
I’ll lean gratefully into you, then rise,
renewed where my faith monthly wavers.
Even the moon disappears
every few weeks, until whispers
from the sun restores its wholeness again–
an eternal pas de deux.
You are ever
my sun, and I
your dancing loon.