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Why can’t I see love
in those low ruffled hills
that have faded
without turning golden?

Instead I confuse love
with reveries that give
only fog.

Shouldn’t I feel love
when I see the traffic blink
on yonder winding highway--?--

after all,
I know those drivers love
and feed love
just as I do.

So I say “love”, I say “love” again,
hoping to convince myself
of what I experience
in every living moment--

I say “love”
in the darkness
as I watch
the streaming flashes
of fireflies.

I say “love”
as I watch a fire
I can never abandon.

I say “love”
as the blue flame rises
over the red--
I see they’re one in the same.

I say “love”...

but I still don’t believe myself.

I can not stop myself
from believing
that love requires I cross
a great chain of mountains--

love lives over there, always over there,
never in the ground
beneath my feet--

over there--in a glowing white cloud
gathered from
the magical invisible spaces

only to disappear
in a moment’s breeze.

I lower my poor head
to the trickle of a stream.

This honest death is also love--
another small death
at the end
of another stumble day.

I eat the green shoots
of my meditation.
Don’t worry about me--
I am growing.

© 2008 Michael R. Patton      go back

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