by Robert Lockridge

Love is like a blooming bush,
That cannot wait for spring;
Heart stays still in sudden hush
That joy and sorrow bring.
What fills us up must then flow out,
Until the whole world sings;
In grace and fullness twirl about—
And do not wait for spring.

Love is like the searing sun
That marks stark summer’s height;
Heart can hold but only one
And has no other sight.
All other senses drop away,
Or soar in endless flight;
Intent is helpless in its sway—
So only hold its height.

Love is like the morning chill
That rustles leaves in fall;
Foretelling how the winter will
Soon cast a bitter pall
On everything that brightly shone
On summer’s fertile soil;
With no ceremony followed, gone—
So heed the rustling call.

Love is like the bitter cold
That covers winter’s ground;
All that matters bought and sold,
And lost without a sound
Of protest from a hateful earth,
That once we twirled around;
Only seek to find rebirth—
And thaw hard winter’s ground.