Love
is  well traveled, for a blind deaf spirit it is rather infinite.
A spirit that has stumbled through life so often, can
hear the passing of the torch from thousands of miles away,
can describe the blue pink sky with streaks of orange
as a jet flies unnoticed against the back ground
hidden by itself for eternity or at least until it touches ground.
Love knows the clear deep pool, reflecting a passerby’s face as
love sleeps warm on the mud floor.
Love knows the concrete floor so often skimmed over
yet love is certain of nothing.
Love knows the same nothingness that you and I both preach.
This is a love poem just not to a lover.
An ode to songs sung and songs that are leaving singers mouths
and songs that are yet to be seen.
Love takes up less than space but gives us reason for space.
It passes in the voice of a father telling his father dinner is ready.
The indistinguishable clear invisible force sweeps not
with the power of a truck but with the handshake and a new doctor.
The moment never ends.
Somewhere a long long time ago green landscape bodies strewn, a mother gives birth,
a child is born, life celebrated,
the young boy’s life football, celebrates language singing,
about the game he loves.
The boy’s birth evolves with life.
Somewhere long ago the man becomes a father.
The moment keeps moving with life.
The kids learned love and the moment grows up with his children.
In a peaceful home a little bit ago his body gives out, life is celebrated.
The moment keeps evolving with his family.