love

this is love,
that thing we are not capable of,
but we do
and with ardour too.

what is this... ?

the ants stand sentry on the peonies.
they swarm the frills
of the feminine flowers,
pink lusciousness crawling with
busy little black warriors
drunk on the sweet nectar

they defend.

how dare they?

love unknown

this is one for you;
you know who you are.

no, really,

you do.

that brief moment,
when you were in the womb.

you were you,
and yet,
not you.

it's ok.

you will be
you again.

and not.

it's ok.
love.