Love in the Innocent

Angel wings wrapped around a bowl of soup
soaking up the warmth,
turning them into hands of giving, and life.

Watching a boy and a girl sitting on a fence
with the flowers bobbing beneath their swinging legs
as they share a small kiss before anyone sees.

Hands reaching over rocky barriers
and barbed waves to reach a drowning child.

The exchange of a burger from homed to homeless,
greasy paper, sour-sweet pickles, and all.

Standing in a field and spinning, and spinning,
because the grip of the wind under your arms
is so close to flying it takes your breath away.

Picking up a writhing brown worm off the footpath,
and helping it to a patch of damp grass, with the libations
of a water bottle to his life, and Mother Earth.

Depositing a grubby dollar into a jingling collection bucket.

Giving someone a tiny forget-me-not,
to remind them that you haven't left,
and haven't forgotten.

Waiting by the door, in the lounge, or in a frigid
mid-winter garden for the wayward Baccid child
to wend their way home to a bed, and a troubled,
yet gentle conscience.

Writing with cold hands, scrambling for a pen
or even a blunt pencil,
because the thoughts are running faster than a river.

Waiting for hours, and hours, and hours, because
you don't know what time is left, and only the time
right now is what matters.

Releasing a butterfly, a dove, a balloon,
a loved one's ashes, because we know that
if we love something, we must learn to let it go.