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I Do Not Love . . . . .
I do not love you as a lover of flowers loves them,
nor as the astronomer loves the galaxies he explores,
loving for mere scent or sight. No I love you more.
I love you as unexplained things are to be loved:
longingly, secretly, ineffably, par coeur,
in shaded ripples, and resonating from the soul.
I love you as the Millenium Plant,
holding its promise for centuries,
seeming never-blooming,
but shielding in its stems and roots the hopes of hidden beauties.
I love the solids of your skin and blood and brain,
and that certain fragrance of the sweetness from their depths.
The disclosed mysteries of you, risen from my flesh
as I have been created of earth, formed to love each other.
We two no longer living darkly alone in two bodies.
I can seek forever for your essence and source, but never find.
For Loving you is hope.
It is not complicated, but straightforward,
guile-less, ineffable, incorruptible, pride-less;
I know no other way. No-one will ever know us all.
Where you are not, there is not love or hope.
Love does not ask or know why, or when, or whence.
But simply is. A total completion of either self.
Love loves what it knows, and what it does not know,
and asks, not so much to know, but to understand
and offer both mind, soul, heart and hand.
This is all it is.
