Sometimes I forget
I haven't always known you.

I met you like we all met things like cake
icing and sprinkles and the birth of daffodils
in the late March that roar
in the strangled throat of Winter.

I imagine that first time I licked 
frosting from the pleated skirt 
of a cupcake I might have
thought it was shaving cream
bubble bath or a snowman's beard--
tasted boxed yellow cake
that has always said "i love you"
more ardent than a hurricane.

I thought sprinkles might grow 
from a bush like spearmint leaves--
maybe I discovered wildflowers and thought
they were spearmint leaves
thought the bells of daffodils were
antique telephones-- tried to call
you from the voice of a two-year-old.

You tell me you want to befriend 
a hurricane so you can know its eye.

I love you like the stillness of air
before a thunder storm in July when
God drops Blitzkrieg buckets on us to watch
us dance--
undressed--
unfurled porch flags--
no longer waiting for an arch
to take us away two-by-two.

We wait for the eye.