They say love
ends—
That there is a
last one.
But how can
that be?
The wind
becomes the
hands of god—
whenever I
need them.
Clouds pass like
My father’s shadow—
present,
silent,
soft.
Birds scatter at
dusk like
breadcrumbs,
feeding the
hungry sky.
Fallen leaves
pat the earth
where,
I'd be buried.
How could I
not love
the newborn
flowers,
trembling naked
in sunlight,
and the bees
that circle them
like praise?
The sun being
my faith—
steady and warm.
The moon tells
me—how little
I understand.
And the stars
lean in
to comfort
the dark.
I love them
like old pottery,
and aged cheese—
weathered, imperfect,
full of story.

No—
This isn’t my last love.
It’s my endless one.