love which may
grow
never a tree nor fruit,
nameless,
lives in
the non-word-
world of a
pause
between
wind and forest,
in the
ripples of a lake,
coming with
the birds as
witness to
silent growth,
in
forgetting and in being
one with
their songs and
the green
leaves exhaling
and when all ’if as’ will stop,
it will
come through pain
like fresh
bread comes out
of the oven’s
heat,
like an
apple falling
into the grass, sweet
in its own
time.
No comments:
Post a Comment