Finely shaped and firmly wrapped --
is love a mold we fit within?
Or does it sit in shifting form,
and must be cupped by steady hands?
And when walking, will love first approach?
If we sit idle beneath some roadside tree, shall we chance upon
a deeper shade, and look, and find love
sitting perfectly --
or does love spring forth from hidden brush,
burst upon the unwary to tie our feet,
that riches from our pockets fall
and all is taken desperately;
or do we set our blueprints down to build
a bridge, a foundation set in stone
to span our gaps, and easily contend
with the weather's force, or a river's bend;
is this not love? yes, something found,
yet something stacked up piece by piece
until garden walls encase two hearts
and in sun and shade, grows steadily.