Measures of Love

I cannot tell you with certainty where wrong begins and right ends-- it is like the weather: sometimes clouds form quickly as hornets jump from the bush all around you… or a slow unfolding, light tucked away at the edges till the pleasant blue is an expected, evident fury; and on other occasions it is a legless dance, with abundance of music but not one, willing partner, to twirl into drench… I guess what I’m trying to say is, beginnings and endings mean little if truth is not a constant drizzle over and above the rain like measures of love are the immeasurable ingredient in every mother’s recipe