Love, I do not love you more in spring
when every green thing boldly sprouts
new blades and the old dogwood touts
plump promises of pinkwhite blossoming—
my love for you needs no awakening—
it’s grown in every season: flood and drought,
the stun of cold, the wilt of heat. Within, without.
I do not love with less than everything.
Still, there is a quickening in spring my heart
can sense, can see—as if a blackwhite photograph
turned gracefully to hues of flame and sun and sky;
it stirs my love for you— my fully seasoned art—
to a fresh colour, a brief dance, a song, a laugh
that fools me once again without my knowing why.