Friday, September 2, 2022

Beloved Companion

The Not Love is what is rare.
People spend lifetimes
Creating it from air
As a gift to others,

As precious as nothing else is,
For everything else,
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
In new earth 

For new dark seeds 
Of what is so hard
To believe, even now,
Can be real.