Measures of Love
I cannot tell you
with certainty
where wrong begins
and right ends--
it is like the weather:
sometimes clouds form quickly
as hornets jump from the bush
all around you…
or a slow unfolding,
light tucked away at the edges
till the pleasant blue
is an expected, evident fury;
and on other occasions
it is a legless dance,
with abundance of music
but not one, willing partner,
to twirl into drench…
I guess
what I’m trying
to say is,
beginnings and endings
mean little
if truth is not
a constant drizzle
over
and above
the rain
like
measures of love
are the immeasurable
ingredient
in every mother’s recipe
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