"What is the soul?"
Asks the poet.
And I—
What is love?
All this fanciful talk of it.
The fairytales—
Wild romance—
Promises—
A lifetime.
No, what are the bones of love?
I ask the fields of wheat
Whispering to one another in the wind
About their promise of return next spring.
"It is always willing to try and try again"
Sings the bustling little sparrow
Rebuilding its home down in the underbrush
On a dreary gray morning.
"It is not circumstantial"
Mumbles the mountain
That has remained since my youth
Despite the fire that burned through her trees last summer.
My question finds me
Sitting in a familiar place of brokenness
Alone.
And there,
God answers—
Love is
the field of wheat returning—
The song of the sparrow as he rebuilds—
The mountain remaining.
My breath catches,
The gifts.
Love is returning—
Rebuilding—
Remaining.
Yes, the God of love gently nudges me
To look further—
It is the choice
Just as I continue to choose you.