The Music They Do

I do not know how to say, "I love you,"
in the sort of way that makes
the trees bend low to listen, makes the grass whisper breathless
in a night ripe with breath-- or
how to inspire each star can be strung up so effortlessly
in an orchestral ballet to shiver in place. I hear the music they do,
and it is the way of jazz, except
that has been used too much. Jazz is a dry well
and there is no more room for love inside of it,
and the night has grown weary of commonplace.
Shakespeare understood; Neruda understood;
each soul that has slipped out and slipped into this place
where we're bordered by wide, wide, blue knows
or else ought know--

Love is a song best sung by the heart,
best sung through lives where
two hearts sit, close together and share their rhythm--
I do not know how to say "I love you"
until the words are beautiful enough to match the sentiment.
So I will live it, with you.