I tell my wife that many things are not simple
Like a kiss that gets devalued with time

And I stubbornly stopping myself from kissing her
To appreciate the small deeds of our intimacy

And I tell her, making love too is not simple
The myriad of moves of gymnastics, the pummel horses

She jumps on and the vaults rushing in crescendo
And all we need is a little free style, a floor exercise

In front of fireplaces. We have ribbons unwrapping through our fingers
Little clubs stiffening inside palms. Invisible ropes binding us.

And we know we are not flawless gymnasts scoring perfect 10s
We are just making love in our own little tempo

And when we don’t make love, it feels like tempo rubato
Nights wasting through the navel of an hour glass

And when we are in each other’s embrace seemingly in a cuddle,
All turns to simple. The coiled arms, the firm gaze

And the knowledge that we made something elaborate simple
Making love it seems was like floating paper boats on a water puddle.

I was the muddy waters and she was the paper boat
A paper hull floating on savage waves

Till she finally found her eye of the storm.