Love is like a changing
flight of small birds
through a snow flurry,
that though it is,
they’ve never paid
the rent two days late,
or had a shut off notice
for a late electric bill
appear on the front door,
yet it is–they know of unseen seeds
amid whiteness and moisture,
there but to be looked for,
unworried in the finding
and its integrity,
as confusion becomes
what the wind whips
and not the wind itself,
so much is taken care of
in the on rush of life,
making doubt and insecurity
a snowflake
dissolving beautifully
on your arm.
Love is..
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