Alone and homesick among the masses
In this rain-grimed city, bejeweled
By bail bonds’ neon and carts of tear-streaked cans,
I ponder love, without even the cloud-hidden
Moon to palely reflect the warmth of your eyes,
Smoldering, angry, sick with worry,
Or smiling in my mirrored gaze.
And I know, love is not a flower
That blooms once, yearly, or as it please,
That worships the sun while wondering
If some other orb might perchance arrive.
No, love abides even within the wet asphalt
And lonesome winds and dreary dark,
Unhidden it faces the buffets and pains
And smiles in the returning sun’s warmth.
No petals to fold, no leaves to conceal,
It grows through even distance and time,
Steady in storms and delights in the dawn
Rising against my beloved’s true form.
No, love is not a flower.
A flower plucked, smiles and dies.
I smile, and die, and say
Pluck me again.