Writing a Love Poem

I used to think that I could write about love.
Having let her tide suck the sand beneath my feet
as I walked that shifting
  place between foam and shore.

I used to think I had no desire to write about love.
Having been battered, ripped open
on her careless rocks.

Now I know, lotus dreams and bitter roots
are only a part of the whole.
The smallest fraction
of a four-lettered word.

Now I know, to write about love
is to fling oneself into her depths.
To write about love,
                        is to drown.