Love is in the swell of the trees, the subtle breeze,
Which for all of its might cannot be seen.

It is love which shifts the steady feet, of the traveler.
And moves in ways unbeknownst to me.

It is love which propels the honey bee, across the field,
And back to the comb of bitter sweet.

It is love which seeps through the autumn leaves, and tumbles down.
Like the leaves before in the autumn breeze.