Love Without Feathers
Love is the thing without feathers –
nor feet nor wings nor fetters –
that perches nowhere
but flows freely through the windows of souls,
seeps through pavement cracks,
trickles down tree trunks and alleyways,
filling the globe like a great bulging water balloon, ready to burst.
Love doesn't sing any one song,
but hums along to every sweeping melody,
every half-broken, chain-smoked tune
and every sonority in the harmonic colour wheel,
no matter the genre, form, or affect.
Love is the patchy yet unyielding gossamer weave
needled carelessly into the great blue quilt above us,
for love is everywhere –
our omniscient author –
our motherlode renewable reserve begging to be mined –
and is easily found by those willing to accept it.
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