You’re the stray hair in my eye,

you’re the bright cloud in my sky,

you’re a poem by García Lorca

translated by Robert Bly.

You’re the hula in my hoop,

you’re the noodle in my soup,

yes, you’re the coziest rose of May

whose petals never droop.

You’re Shakespeare’s bravest line,

you’re a bosom friend of mine;

in my personal solar system,

you’re Planet Number Nine.

You’re a hot Top 40 hit;

you’re the Nobel Prize in Lit.

The epitome of majesty,

you’re Oscar W.’s wit!

You’re a convict’s second chance;

you’re Baryshnikov’s best dance,

a song on “Glee,” the life of me,

you’re the capital of France.

You’re graceful and you’re gawky,

you’re the Amtrak to Milwaukee;

among the big New Hampshire lakes,

you’re surely Winnipesaukee.

You’re a witch, and I’ve been hexed;

you’re my phone’s predictive text:

you’re splendid and you're whimsical!

I hardly know what’s next.

You’re Dorothy Hamill’s skates,

you’re a game of Crazy Eights,

beyond compare, you’re Harvard Square,

you’re the bluest of blue states.