People loved to tell me love is choice.
And sure, it is, the way that choice is
the way a human moves through the world, one foot, then another—
because choosing—to eat Wheaties, wear white, read Whitman—is acting.
But no one told me that love is most like praise.
Love is gratitude,
To offer, over and over again, acolyte-like, incense sticks of praise for the beloved.
Without gratitude, do I really see you,
truly see?
We hold a creature either as a choice we control,
like raising a left arm or turning the car right right
Or receiving them as gifts—like breath or heartbeat—
The givenness that keeps us ticking, what keeps us breathing, daily
Unasked for, unmerited: heaven—
A time after all time when we will praise the God in-all-in-all,
In-youed in me.
And some did tell me love is seeing him there—in you—
And seeing him in all, because of that.