as bee is to blossom
love does not live well in the heart without finding its way out for air
for slow walks through the forest and early risings under stars.
love does not live well in the heart held captive by wishes of possession,
by some Disney spell that takes all that rising action and turns it into a
couple in a castle served by a coachman who used to be a rat.
love wears masks and likes to play outside the lines,
likes to seek the weary winterer who forgot to believe in spring,
likes to lay snares made of rose petals and tea lights and
makes itself into a smooth stone that fits the palm just right
so you want to keep it in your pocket forever
because it gives you something to reach for when you’re afraid
you will never hold a hand, brush a cheek again.
you seek out the cherry blossoms at evening light and you watch the bees
vibrating around the stamens with pinheads of pollen on their tips and
amazement rises as you wonder what it is like to be that bee,
that stamen, that pollen and how the moment of contact is so tender and
buzzy that it brings tears to your eyes because
you can never explain the miracle that brought you here
to this moment as you stand next to life loving itself and you,
with your own pollen, your own stamen, your own bee-ness,
seeing behind all the masking, the roles, the risks, and
knowing love does not live well in the heart
without finding its way out for air…
for that juncture, that moment, that gift
when life touches life and knows it is love.
