offering

The moon?
Oh my darling, no,
the moon is too cold and too quiet.
Instead,
I would give you a roaming brass band on
Sunday mornings, Brazilian drummers on Saturday nights, the clinking
of dishes and the chatter of terrasses.
I would give you
the place de la Bastille the night we qualified
for the final, a cacophony of horns, a snapping of flags, a roar
of savage jubilation,
and I would give you my eyes,
bright with sunshine.

The stars?
Oh my darling, no,
the stars are too far. But I would give you the smell of baking bread
floating in my windows,
the murmur of passing visitors, a light breeze
to stir the geraniums or
make the candle flame dance,
I would give you the pavement below and
the stonework above, and I would give you
my hands, curled around the stem of a
late-night glass.

The earth?
Oh my darling, no,
the earth is too big
and too troubled. But, oh, my love, I would give you
Paris in the summer,
and by that I mean,
my heart.

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