of frantic hummingbirds, and of cages

Love enters gently;
it is never a storm, or it is not love.
-- --- --
Love is pouring your fingers through chest hair,
and the feeling
of the frantic hummingbird beneath;

it is also setting that bird free.
--
It's the inflections when they speak to you.
It's the reflections when they don't.

It's hungry, but it never begs.
It's thirsty, but it will not drain you.
--
It is not obsession, nor does it obsess.
It does not cower, cry, or ache for possession.
--
--
Love is silent -
it is only through inner-twined-songs
that
you
make
this
bird
sing.

Reviews

[Nadia Gerassimenko]

I am in complete accord with this poem. Love is gentle and compassionate. There is desire, but it is not obsessive nor possessive. Or it is not love.