It's not a Valentine thing either

Love is such a short, thin and threadbare word,

so frequently used that it’s hardly heard.

I’ll love you more than you will ever know,

I’ll love you without threadbare being uttered.

Without the scents of flowers and of sandal,

without the showy moths and central candle.

I think I’ll love you but let the trite go

I won’t fashion your name into a ghazal.

Yet if someone should come upon my page

when I’m gone - in some future space and age -

he would know that the writer, long ago,
had loved beyond the limits of her language.