Love being fault, folly, vice,
I would still keep it.
One must love even in vain. If nothing else,
it is good to have a plant
growing in the heart,
spreading its branches over all one does,
rustling contentedly its leaves
that remind one
of whispers, childhood, shade, rest.
Love is a dampening
of the heart’s soil so it can reciprocate
time’s generosity.
In the bosom of chaos,
it is playing host to a world
where all are invited to be at ease.
The heart that loves
is an ecosystem its own where
organisms sing their difference and
cells dance to sameness.
Here the earthworm, squirrel, wasp, bat,
all live together making their way
leaf to leaf, branch to branch.
Love is no place one arrives at.
Only a light one can be part of,
absorb, reflect. Once planted,
the reason for its being may become
conveniently obsolete like the journeys
and pasts of things.
It is enough that love is there,
the light some more in its benignity.
- from Stitching a Home (2021)