I'd love you as a metaphor of tides,
empowered by a moon powered by mass,
without flinching, never shrinking in size
but for occasional change, or contrast.
I'd serve you as keeper of sacred things,
saving them from chastity, from neglect;
polishing you often, often oiling
the smallest mechanisms, moving, check-
ing them for wear.  And if one day your throat
were sore, I'd sing for you-- borrow refrains
to translate your half of the songs we wrote;
play your piano for family, friends,
one note at a time.  Methodically,
thoughtfully, I'd love you imperfectly.