What This Love Is Not
It is not the power that turns back tides,
or topples mountains to the graves of sand,
nor is it that which feeds the nuclear sun
or bids the moon eclipse at will.
It is not the force that guides the wind
or causes the implosion of stars,
nor is it that which quakes the earth
or rules the turning of the world.
This love is the whispered morning words
in kisses placed upon the sleepy brow,
the delicate shiver along the thread of nerves
bunched within the nape of neck.
This love is the slow increasing beat,
of heart held in the tingling breast;
this love is the touch of flesh and mind,
the contacts of divinity and depth.
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