My love does not rise
like a mothers eternal joy.
It fades like the embers
of a dying candle to dawn.

My love does not sit
like a bernard at steel gates.
It’s consciously inept
to old kingdoms betrayed.

My love does not flaunt
or lure for local gaze.
It’s meticulously shifting
through stone alley ways.

My love does not slow
when the foxes catch their prey,
and the thimbles string out of
endless velvet displays.

My love does not leave
like the bay doors at wind.
It gusts for the moment
where the new gardens begin.