Love is Not a Hothouse Rose

Love is not a hothouse rose

but a small wildflower on the side of a road.

 fragile strength blossoms 

 into a tiny wonder of natural beauty

surrounded by a concrete world.

Love is not a shiny happy day

it doesn't always paint on a smile

and invite us out to play

 sometimes it endures the cold icy days

which enter our lives on winter's feet.

it's steadfast

 in the midst of the storm

encourages, cradles, envelopes and warms.

Love is not silver and gold

 nor the perfect glittering sparkling object of envy

 years of tarnish, of use

cracks and chips

have not made it fade away

Love is so precious, so essential 

it can't be defined

 Webster's doesn't do it justice

the eloquent essay

odes to its essence

just are a glimpse of the everyday magnificence

of its awesome power

that enslaves us in its thrall.