This thing called love
Is strange, I find-
It is a harlequin
With nature’s myriad colours-
Like silken water
It enters the crevices
Of a heart, in complete silence-
Splitting wide open
The vulnerabilities of rock,
Softening the edges-
It has the tenacity
Of raindrops,
Weathering down superfluities-
It is not blind
Nor wears rose-coloured glasses
Like I was told;
It sees the whole
As clear as the sky-
As effortless as the grass,
As trees, as flowers,
It doesn’t beg for mercy
Nor asks concessions-
There is no ceremony to sunrise,
No sunset retreats;
No social sanctities
Are wanted;
No recognition sought,
No articulation warranted-
It has the simple faith,
Of sunshine
In its trust,
The generosity of the wind
In its giving;
Not even seeking reciprocation-
Content to wait like the earth,
Undaunted by drought or flood,
Its humility relentless
For the storm that was delayed-
I’m glad of this benediction,
But,
Oh, Love, why were you late?