I question
whether I have ever truly loved
now that I know what it is
to love you.
Before,
the broken bits
of my self
struggled to match to
jagged and half-formed edges,
an assemblage of wholeness.
Until I rested,
free and wild and satisfied,
I was not ready
for my smooth rounds
that became my wholeness
to perceive the grandness
of yours.
I question
if a fractured self
can truly know
love
in earnest.
Was the totality
of those old feelings
simply a memory
of the future
cast forward
to play act
at the eventuality
of a true and honest love?
Did I merely guess and explore
at a hint and a shadow
in rehearsal
for knowing you?
They say love is hard,
and it's not:
Patience is the trial.
Love is the impetus
and it lends
its massive strength.
Love is not a battlefield,
it is not cold or broken.
These are only
chapters
in the epoch
of a lifetime.
When love stole into my center,
like a foot pad or a ninja,
I laughed,
because it is so quiet.
Love is a surprise,
a deadly one,
for it can so easily take
unless one is ready to give.
The gift returns
ceaselessly
without extinguishing
the light.
~Anna Chlewicki Lightfoot
