We are but patterns
Made at a certain point
Our love and desires
Are patterns too
No different than
The leaves on a rose stem
Or spirals on a shell
When a pattern is disrupted
The organism dies.
But what is created by love
And empathy remains
Like poetry, music, painting
And literature to be experienced
As patterns
Love remains in the memory
Of those we loved
It is simple really.

Love Mary xxxx