Never, My Love

Our hands hug
            despite downpours,
                       we reach higher ground
                      below the Dogwood trees,
               sample seasonal gourmet dips
                 with each other's fingertips;
 we devour each day passionately.

Will I ever leave love's picnic? 
                                     Never, my love.

Gorgeous gardens 
                      grow in rows,
                             but true love's a field; 
                                              it overflows,                       
                             with seeds well sown
                         which soar in sunlight
100 billion years old.

Will love's landscape ever grow cold?
                                          Never my love.

The universe swirls 
                      on flat grey sheets,
                             infinite combinations,
                                       legs and feet;
                       silence is a sacred space        
                where passions balloon,
             footprints on the moon,
and patterns we have yet to see.

Will I ever discard gravity?
                             Never, my love. 

© khartless 2022, All Rights Reserved

Graphic: Tenor


  1. I am catching up on reading posts I have missed – and it was lovely to read this on a morning when the news is so truly awful.
    ‘Will I ever leave love’s picnic?
    Never, my love.’
    Beautiful poem. ❤


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