by Catherine Simpson
It smells like hills after rain,
This country. Love.
Nobody told me it was like this—
Beauty of plainness, beauty of nature.
I thought love would be won-derful.
That’s how I wrote about it in my
Journal: I’m sure love will be
Won-derful. It isn’t.
To say I love you to someone
Is to say something akin to this:
You are my daily bread.