Some time ago, under the auspices of some infatuation, I felt moved to poetry. This following piece was written on an especially balmy day in Summer. I'm not sure how large a part the weather played in the creation of this poem, but it was certainly a fine afternoon.
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It is but love
as snow white doves do circles in the sky.
"It is but love!"
The man decries, as joyful tears he cries.
It is but love,
the sparkling diamonds dancing in her eyes!
"But what is love,
if one or all, that you should so surmise?"
Why, love is swelling ocean waves, crashing on the shore,
and love is future feelings, and those felt long before.
Love is every blade of grass, growing in the field,
and every blooming summer rose, so eager to appeal.
Love is on the mountaintops, rising eternally,
and even in the darkest depths, far beneath the sea.
‘But what is love?’ you ask, and I shall speak the truth,
for love is all these things and more, but most of all, it’s you.
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