On Art

For my friend on the occasion of his wedding.

No eye for art, you said,

and turned toward Hunger,

livid color leaving you cold,

neither keen, nor compelling,

not enough, not when you already

know how marble folds, how stone

creases, warms under your touch.

She only imagines herself a statue,

forgetting granite needs no control

to remain unmoving, unmoved,

her skillful deliberation

a lie into which you have

a lifetime of insight.

You have seen the art in her intention,

in the way she unthreads the world with

her questions; you know how bright

the recklessness in her chest, how

her smile alights in private, when

all eyes have turned from her

save yours.

Yours:

eyes well-trained in appreciation

for the art of her meticulousness,

the elegance of her restraint,

the beauty of her abandon, and

the wonder of a love grown

in secret, unveiled today.