Still, Love Keeps Walking Barefoot
Still, love keeps walking barefoot, though the sky is in shreds,
and the baker swears softly while counting his breads,
though the dogs in the square bark at storms in their dreams,
and the saints in the church spill their wine into streams.
The moon, like a coin someone lost in the hay,
is rolling through puddles at the end of the day.
A drunk in the tavern recites without end
that God’s just a neighbor you greet like a friend.
Still, love keeps walking barefoot: crooked, stubborn, alive,
with pockets of matches that never ignite,
with songs in its mouth that can barely survive,
but sing in the dark like a ship without sight.
It waits at the corner where rain starts to pray,
it hides in a teacup forgotten all day,
and no emperor’s map, and no scholar’s decree
can tell where it starts, or why it chose me.
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