Love on an April Afternoon

 

So many letters, words, sentences,

lines, paragraphs, stanzas, books,

and tomes dedicated to the very single

idea of love.

It is impossible to comprehend the amount

of verbiage spent on one little, tiny, word.

 

We think it about all the time,

even when we don’t know we’re thinking

about it. It’s in almost every word we speak

and in every action we take.

That love thing.

Always in what we are doing.

 

Even if we’re doing the wrong thing,

perhaps it’s self-love, perhaps it’s stealing

bread to feed our loved ones, perhaps it’s

just love of possessions, love of a high feeling,

love misinterpreted by a mind starved for

that minuscule word.  Love in anger. Love lost.

 

I love this or that,

I love them or those,

I love thinking of him,

I love thinking of her,

I love her nose,

I love his face.

 

We love.

We devote ourselves to it,

we pine for it,

we search the skies with telescopes

looking for some validation of our love,

we want it as much as we want to give it.

 

That one, single, silly word, that looks

sort of funny – LOVE,

Sort of skinny and fat at the same time,

lanky and short, pretty and hideous,

made and maker, taker and breaker.

 

Love on an April afternoon,

on the Nile, in the dark, on the shore,

in the space in between, on my mind,

out of my mind.

Put on this Paper.