A complex explanation for love is that it IS,
to describe it as something, more or less an
expression of a state of being, suggests it is
not. You say I love you in my own way. I am
surprised there is another – it’s my love, the
lot I live with day by day. It is fulfilled should
you say or do the simple things it needs to
glow, but it never goes away. It is what it is.
I hear your love in the sound of your voice,
in a tear or a wry face; long conversations
with sons whose words embrace, sheer joy
in the scent of a flower in a bed of colour,
grace of your grief – a dignity of self I need
to face this day displaced in the love of you.
© 15 December 2007, I. D. Carswell
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