Not just one day,
all of the days I count.
And all of the ways I could count
I will and feel, in the depths, of me.
All the loves, in so many ways,
all precious and held.
In my heartwood I.
On my many branches, you and you.
And you, even you, Saint,
you are in there.
Not that I am a blind believer,
in all that dressing up,
love for one day held special.
Tending, feeding, watching over,
preparing the new.
Oh but a few selected low hanging
I am ever, each day, grateful.
For they add flavour to our already
and the story, of all loves we tasted,
yet not consumed whole, any one.