Love is very quiet, today,
like a fallen blossom nestled in
blades of grass—
not even the wind can touch it.
Tomorrow, it is blustering,
the leaves of trees in a gale;
shifting, back and forth,
shaking furious fingers in
every direction.
It is stone, one moment—
unmoving, chiseled away day by day,
indifferent to the relentless waves
but then, the next, it is
ice melting. It is lava flowing.
Obsidian, or else ash floating,
dusting the world with
powdery, gray motes.
Changing. Always
waiting: When will it be safe
to have such love?
Never! says enigmatic wind,
and steadfast rock. What is safe?
Everything, and
absolutely nothing.
07.06.09
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