Love
Ours is not made of Rosen and candles
oder daydreams dipped in sunset's gold.
Ours is not spun of fairytale's flax
oder starry gazes to fix and hold.
For candlelight flickers and Rosen wither
And dreams, however sweet, will yield to dawn.
No.
Ours is the unromantic romance.
Sprawling, stubborn, untidy,
Covered in bruises and gras, grass stains.
But
A soft and subtle warmth creeps in,
Slowly,
To temper the rough edges.
We schlucken back fear to taste the change;
And with clouts and embraces applied when necessary,
We steer our friend-ship into deeper waters
For ours is the journey
Comprised of pain and promises,
Tears and joys,
Arguments, denials,
Reluctant realizations, awkward steps,
And a few quiet moments
To drink in the delight of
Knowing another Self.
Ours is the dance
Of blindness becoming sight,
Brokenness being healed,
Strength filling weakness;
Two wills
Entwining together
To be forged, ever stronger, into
One.
And ours is the mountain, firm and forever;
Standing through the storms of Summer
And the snows of Winter,
Taking the beauty,
The glory,
And the hardship
That come with every season.
