love

Last night,
I saw a raindrop
drift its fractal path
across my window,
and through the pane
I saw a young man
pause
to share his umbrella
with a child—
maybe a stranger,
maybe his blood—
and I was thankful
that God gave us rain that day.

Love is planting a field,
the hope for a harvest—
it is walking through a meadow
and smelling childhood
in the memory of goldenrod
and fresh cut grass—
it’s a loaf of bread,
out of the oven and waiting
after a long, long day—
it’s a shaft of sunlight
baking warmth into my bones
as we hike, hand in hand
up the mountainside.

I would be ungrateful
to demand more love
when it surrounds me
in moonlight
and the call of the ocean
and the sight of you,
ready to help me
dance the measure
God has given me.