Could My Love for You be Any More True?

(About a 1 minute read)

I loved her in the Spring.
In the Spring when the new flowers
Urged a slowed metabolisms into becoming
A rushing, headlong mountain stream.

In the Spring when
An overnight lightening storm
Turned the yellow grasses emerald by morning,
And love gained its legs
Like a newborn colt supersized it could stand.

I do not know now whether I will love you
As I loved her, back when I was discovering
Not merely her but love itself.

Could my love for you be any more true
If it were unmixed by the pleasures of discovery
Or the thousand other pleasures of love?

Simple love is made complex by its pleasures:
A truth of love I’ve learned since her.

We all too soon see only in each other
Pleasures that we then cherish
More than we cherish each other,
Leading us to the abyss of possessiveness
And “mine”.

Can we avoid that fate?
It seems to me at times like death,
Something we can only accept
With or without grace.

But if we merely accept it,
Is that not accepting the death of love?

To be human is to be poised on a ledge
Between a cliff and an abyss.
Do we stay, do we climb, do we leap?

I will give you my hand in the morning sun,
Like a child who seeks to touch but not clasp.