It might be nice,
I sometimes think,
if love expressed itself
in a dozen red roses,
a candlelight dinner at a
cozy restaurant,
or a surprise gift of a pearl
necklace.
It might be nice,
but that kind of love I probably
wouldn't even recognize.
Love comes to our house all
the time,
but it's disguises are many:

Love is a big wet square
right in the middle of my back.
I knew she had a sponge
in her hand
when she reached up
to hug me.
I knew it,
but I didn't think fast enough.

Love is an ugly cricket in my
left hand.
''I wanted you
to be the first
to hear him sing,''
he said
Someday
I am going to learn
not to shut my eyes
and hold out my hand.

Love is a car that looks
as if it had been freshly
washed in a
mud puddle.
It has,
and he says,
''I thought it would be nice
if the car was clean
before we go on vacation''

Roses? No,
love is a handful of fresh garlic
and some sets for my
herb garden.
And love is eight ounces
of my favorite cheese.
We can do without the bread
I asked him to bring home from work.

Love is a small boy
giving his little sister
a ride on the back
of his tricycle,
and it is
that little sister
tossing all her favorite
toys into the new
baby's crib
so the baby can play.

Love is one high flying kite
with four children
and a daddy
hanging on to
the string.

Love is a big sister using
all the tape to put the heads
back on her little sister's
paper dolls.

Love is a three year old crying
because the cat ate the mouse

Love is a long afternoon
alone at the library,
with Don home
watching the kids.

Love is a preacher stepping on
my toes,
gently,
but on purpose.

Love is standing high on a hill
with the wind in my hair
letting all the love
that always surrounds me
warm my waiting heart.

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