Poets Many

What of love each poet speaks,
unbidden of their own?
Through them, the fabric of passion
in the universe is woven.

Silk, Oak, softest cashmere,
joined, beautifully formed
granite, surfaces are textures
swirling to blend in the tapestry,
that clothes the spirit.

In cold, against the shiver of
sadness, despair and darkness,
the weave is tight and bound
with faith and trust.

Giving blessed chill
in humid heat as
sunlight bares it's sliding,
rippling sweltering rays,
the garment coaxes the
excited breezes
over skin enchanted.

The world turns ever steady
while love releases or embraces us.
We delight in the
mysteries of it's eyes,
deep pools of discovery,
yet uncovered.

Men are fools and women weep
when love departss our souls,
or when it's cracked and torn away.

Ever mending is this fabric
of love, wise trusting,
outcome unknown.
Days unfold,love delivers what it will
between the cloak of time and boundless space.

The spirit soars looking down,
sees the quilt that covers
mother earth.
Loves past, present,
perhaps those not yet formed.

My loves were badly chosen,
all for them, not for me.
Small steps to learning love's
enlightenment, come to me
through poetry well written.

Scripted from
the tender souls
of poets many,
I learn the ways
of love.