this is love, but it is not
the love of trees for rain,
children for summer days
it is not about the way you'd shiver
eyes wide in your navy coat,
picking hairs off mine
it is not about the junk shops on pine,
bad coffee, blue smoke,
red hair that whispered to your waist
it is not about the way we'd wake,
august wind in pleading chimes
one more day, just one more day
approaching fall, white linen sheets,
bad wine
this is love, but it is not
the love of flowers for a vase,
farmers for the soil
this is love,
but it is the love of insects for the winter,
veterans for the metal in their legs;
for the dreams, and for it aching when it rains