Maybe I’ve said it all,
maybe I’ve said too much,
maybe I haven’t said enough.
How many more ways can I think of to
say I love you.
I suppose a man cannot make a flower grow
once it has been planted.  Only God can do that.
Every day as I watch you, think of you, miss you, long for you,
I feel that there’s something I’ve forgotten to do.
Must I water you with my tears to make you bloom, or was the truth of my bare soul enough?
Am I giving you too much warmth, am I wilting your trust in me?
Sometimes I am afraid of revealing too much to you before the time is right.
There is so much I want to tell you, my love, but are you ready to hear it yet?
I am always worried of drowning you with my promises, suffocating you with my kisses.
I wish I could burrow under your brow and examine your mind,
so that I knew how better to make you grow into the light of my love.
I wish I could see if you yearn for me
like a flower enclosed within a window pane leaning toward the sun.
I wish I could be the earth, that your heart would take root in my heart and find in it the protection you seek.
But there is a right season for everything which has been sown to be reaped, even your love.
What else can I do but wait for you
to decide if I am the sun which will bring out your womanhood,
to decide if you want to open yourself to me
like a tulip opens up her petals to let the hummingbird taste of her sweet pollen.
Flowers do not talk.  They only bloom or die.  What can I do but wait?
I will wait.  I will keep feeding your soul with word-drops of
I love you, je t’aime, te quiero,
and I will pray to God that if you bloom, you bloom for me.