Sometimes I have so much
love to give and nowhere
to direct it.

I want to give it all to you,
but distance has made
that an impossibility.

I want to give it to the flowers
but the chill of changing
seasons has shriveled them.

I want to give it to the song,
but my voice can no longer
find the perfect pitch.

Now I can only absorb the
love left in the pages of poets
whose feelings are all too familiar.

And I wait to have somewhere
to spread my love without
spreading myself too thin.