“The Valentine,” Ensign, Apr. 1976, 13
The valentines we made in school.
I never cut the hearts out flat—
The two sides would never match for me.
I always folded and centered
And scissored out a half a heart
That opened into perfect symmetry.
So they never had a side that was fat
And a side that was skinny.
I loved them for that.
I felt sort of nice and tidy that way
The day we saw the shape of our being one—
As if it had opened from some good design
That made two matching halves,
Yours and mine.
But I find we don’t stay put like paper.
We are not comfortable with glue.
Your edges have shifted, stretched,
And mine have too—
But not to a pattern.
If we folded our halves up today
They would not fit.
Occasionally I itch for the scissors,
I will admit.
I will put away childish things—
Cut them off like braids.
We are no valentine, you and I.
We are something so alive, so moving,
So growing, I cannot yet
Put a name to the shape.
I only know it goes on and on and on,
Pressing toward whatever border
There may somewhere be.
Your center and mine are one,
And between the halves there is flow.
That is much.
I will let the edges go.