I have met Love.
This is no koan, no monk’s puzzle
to be pondered over weeks of silence.
Nor poetic license: not a substitute
for ‘what a loving thing I felt,’ or, ‘I observed.’
She, pouring out both passion and compassion,
I DID observe, and do, and hope to,
long from now, and soon,
and in all ways our orbits might align.
Perhaps engage in banter, tease,
if ever fascination eases
long enough to shake this earnestness
that seized, and so far holds, my tongue.
But this is merely detail.
To say, ‘she loves,’ ‘she gives,’ ‘she shines,’
is utterly to miss the point.
One cannot choose one’s nature.
She is Love.
She is the gift of love, itself,
without reserve or rationing.
Blazing, glowing sparks in fierce defense
Of all in pain, at risk, outcast.
Yet ever casts a gentle shine that draws the eye,
and so distracting fears…
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