Love Does Not Float

 

Love Does Not Float

(“Beloveds, let us love one another. For love comes of God. And every one who loves is born of God and knows God.” 1 John 4:7)

Love does not float.
It digs.
Love sometimes smells like sweat and dung,
coming from the last one you expect and
going to the hot fields to lift bales for the
neighbor who lost everything when the fires came.

Loves does not tiptoe.
It stomps.
It is earthquakes with baskets for the falling.
Love often lives among the ruins,
coming from the survivors you missed and
going to the shattered concrete remains of
houses where only the poor could afford
a building that tumbles with the slightest wind or
shaking.

Love does not fly.
It crawls.
It is smaller than kings and ruffians.
Love always seeks the silent ones,
coming from invisible wounds still healing and
going to the fading echoes whose voices have lost
their song. Their names are scrawled on the pavement.
Impermanent chalk.

Love does not speak.
It holds.
It is spacious as the saddest tear that needs a circle of existence.
Love will stay until the void is filled,
coming from the song of the fields and
going to the decayed kitchen where a widow
wonders how the dishes will ever be done. Her
name, though unknown, is present for everyone.