Ruach
Is not love merely
the product of a calculating mind?
like the etching of hummingbird wings
on air – imagined and un-sensed –
or yesterday’s raindrops
beholden to memory,
but sure to come again –
transient yet consistent, persistent
rain – love, that four letter word
poets are warned against uttering,
where does it go
when the flame is blown out?
What is love without
our hands to strike
the match that lights the flame?
What is love without
our breath to stoke or extinguish?
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