Despite what we imagine
In our sometime pain,
Beset either by aching anticipation
Or subsequent loss,
Lovers are never found by chance.

So tell that to the trees,
Who've seen it all
Countless times before
And can only stand apart
In the meadow of life
And wait
For us to dream again,
Like some broken hearted waif
On a grimy street,
For whom only the predatory
Are likely to stop.

For not even fool's comfort
Can cling on there
To inhibit notes of caution
That would otherwise trim our wings,
Spoil any such dividend.

And so much more too!

Seems like
We always had this coming.
Our needs, till met,
Like rising sap,
Like clotted pollen in the air.

As it always is
In beauty's sweet surrender,
Desire is the irreplaceable *****
That draws us steadily on to one another
And then fruits.

You were in me all along.