Love is the frame, the paper. Love is the string. Love is hours spent assembling the kite.
Love is the empty blue sky waiting for you to dance across it.
Love is the wind. Love is the tree. Love is the leaves tumbling through the gale.
Love is testing the breeze, waiting for the perfect moment. Love is impatient, launching too soon into certain disaster. Love is still standing, waiting, long after the breeze has passed.
Love is the tension which holds the kite aloft. Love is the desperate dance as the kite starts to fall.
Love is the crash.
Love is the splintered balsa,
the torn paper.
Love is putting the kite
back together again.
Love is trying again.
THE GARDEN
I feel the ragged underbrush of my mind clearing. In quiet contemplation I pull out every errant root, every errant thought, leaving room for the important strands to bloom.
Every morning: fuller leaves mew crisp life hints of flowers and fruit. And something new growing within as well.
My spirit blooms with your every flower. You have nourished me long before I taste your first salad.