like the water
of a deep stream,
love is always too much.
we did not make it.
though we drink till we burst,
we cannot have it all,
or want it all,
in its abundance,
it survives our thirst.

in the evening we come down to the shore to drink our fill,
and sleep,
while it flows
throught the regions of the dark
it does not hold us
except we keep returning to its rich waters thirsty,

we enter,
willing to die,
into the commonwealth of its joy.