Love is a thing that we put in the ground

and though we willed it into being

and yes we are made of brittle bone and flesh

and still Love is made of clarity and life

and unwieldingness

 

and though Love was ours it exists apart now,

and Love offers up its blooms unprompted
and Love is no longer phased by cruel storms and frosty, dark nights,

 

and one day I will not be here with you,

and you will still find me in the branches of Love

and I will still whisper to you from the leaves and after us, Love will remain

 

and many eons from now man will forget Love,

and Love will eventually join us,

and go wherever it is that True Love goes

and Love will die too, but not yet

 

and so we make Love’s roots deep