People spend lifetimes
Creating it from air
As a gift to others,
As precious as nothing else is,
For everything else,
Love,
Is sturdy, automatic.
What is this strange, fragrant thing
That takes pale aim
And breaks down
As we look at it
In whatever light we have,
What is made available,
Which is always too much
To hold even its shape.
It disappears
As all life on earth
Completely
In new earth
For new dark seeds
Of what is so hard
To believe, even now,
Can be real.
