Love is what we think we make
and fail to see that it makes us
Love is the driver of the wasp who
at the end of its days with both
right legs missing still courts in its heart
flowers, sun and the living air
while basking on a warm rock in autumn
It is the driver of the elephant who
recognizes a childhood playmate
down the long corridor of years
with every bone, sinew and ounce
of its ancient, seamless and glorious
bulk
Love stitches the wings of the vulture
like an emblem on the open sky
where for most of its useful life
it floats and soars in an ecstasy
of thermals, currents and scented wind
Love is the thread of light that I
throw
across the ocean of years in my dreams
that loved-ones grasp and tug upon
from a distant shore that I do not
fathom
Love never stops fishing when spooled
and orphaned in a cardboard box
on a dark, dusty and rusting shelf
in the scary basement of our lives
It is the thing that cleaves away
from the wreckage and disaster
that we make of our relations
on this beautiful spinning ball in
space
Love is always clean and new-born
a blameless doll that bears with grace
whatever outfit we decide to dress it
in
Love charges all animates all
with its gigantic and invisible force
it is the gum on the sidewalk, it is
the bird on a branch, the food on our
plate
and the faithful aged stove that cooks
it
Love is bestower, creator, enfolder,
fuel, engine, chauffeur and car
we are love's passengers
who, directing from the backseat,
like to live the illusion of mastery
by naming it our emotion
when in truth love is the ocean
and we are just the drops...
Lucy Meskill
