I think of love as something that grows form
as it ages, sometimes firm, sometimes round,
broadening, ambling if allowed.

I think of love as an elemental discovery,
unwrapping itself time and again, ever
revealing eccentricities, hope,
a whipped dog who greets the morning
with joy. Yes, even then.

I think of love as the mud nestled
within the broken crevices of sidewalk,
linking both edges when they don’t know it.

I think of love as the soft-spoken child
who is skipped over while all the others
wiggle in their seats and chatter
the teacher to distraction.

I think of love as mountains, prairies,
all the unmeasurable things we ignore
but long for as the light dims.

I think of love as the woman who walks
into the motion of giving each day
no longer needing to believe.

I think of love as the spark that sets
all the spirit-winds swimming through the city
even if they are caught by only a few,

and, in those few cupped hands,
whispered over, breath fanning them,
they seep meekly
into every heart they near.

My ongoing attempt to come to terms with violence in our society, and feeling overwhelmed by the story from Mississippi last night. For my dear friends who serve others.