An Ode to Everyday Love

By Cynthia Kirkeby

Today, love, I do not sing of roses,
nor the moon’s silver threads
woven into the tapestry of night.
Instead, I praise the coffee cup,
its handle worn by mornings shared,
its warmth echoed in your hands.

I sing of the threadbare blanket
we drape over our knees,
a shield against the cold world,
its fraying edges stitched
by laughter and the quiet hum
of words we do not need to say.

Then there’s the bread you slice with care,
its crust a map of tiny mountains,
its heart as soft as the glances you give
when you think I’m not looking.
Even the dull knife gleams brighter
in the wake of your touch.

And the clock—faithful and unyielding,
tick-tocking the rhythm of our days.
It cannot measure this life we build,
one dish washed, one morning walk,
one shared silence at a time.

Today, on this day the world proclaims
love in crimson and perfume,
I celebrate at the small altars of love—
your ruffled hair in the morning,
the pen left uncapped on the table,
the way your voice lilts when you read aloud
and forget where the commas go.

For in these ordinary moments,
I find the infinite:
a universe of moments stitched
to the fabric of our lives.
And I know—yes, I know—
that this is the love I would write odes for,
again and again.