Since last fall, I have been spending an increasing amount of time reconnecting with my first love.

No, I am not talking about Harry, who was my co-president in kindergarten. (Yup, both my leadership aspirations and amorous desires emerged early in life.)

Nor have I been thinking much about Brian, whose shiny, engraved I.D. bracelet graced my left wrist the entire summer before 6th grade.

This is not even about Steven, with whom I read Thoreau and Emerson as we walked through the woods to high school in the pre-dawn hours.

What I’m talking about is poetry, a passion I have recently welcomed back into my life with open arms and a full heart.

This love was rekindled last August, when the latest, bilingual collection of Pablo Neruda’s Odas arrived in the mail, a luxurious gift to myself as the summer days began to disappear.

Unlike my previous liaisons, this current relationship has progressed slowly, as I have revisited several former loves: Neruda made room for Yehuda Amichai, and Amichai cleared the path for Marge Piercy. Most recently, after flirting for months with Mary Oliver, I jumped feet first and embraced a collection of her work, spending the better part of a week curled up in bed, reading each poem aloud, cover to cover, under the covers.

I’m not sure who will be next, but for now, I am feeling satiated. And content.