Love, in struggle, is defined,
not just in the vines of fate entwined.
We fought,
we taught,
we wove the bond we wrought,
for no one inherits the divine.
No, love is mortally confined
between the tenuous breadth of lines
of life,
of strife,
of fractures drawn by trials
in earth eroded over time.
So, marriage in love is beheld,
not simply a ritual tale to tell.
Betrothed?
Beloved?
These vows belie our beliefs
that love defies and dispels.
Love, by trust, is refined,
a lens of ancient sands combined.
Our acts,
our pacts,
our fossils not lost 'neath the past,
we still see silently in our minds
that love is forgiveness applied,
a daily layer of demands denied.
Absorbed,
adored,
a force of feelings reforged,
clairvoyant for our heart's mind's eye.
But union is not stone nor sand,
not stem nor leaf grown in light bent by our own hands.
We strove
to grow
this seed to passioned grove,
and wield the fruit as lovers can.
The fruit of love is transitive,
a word that takes what persons give,
and shares
and bears
beneath its lush and blossoming care
the love for the soul, infinite and sensitive.
