Love is not for everyone.
It falls—like rain—
soft on the leaves,
not to stay,
but to make them shiver.
It brushes the rivers,
ripples once, then moves on.
It does not anchor,
only passes through,
like a breath without a name,
yet still it sings.
Love is the ember
that never takes flame,
the pollen left on wings
of bees that will not return.
Some of us are made for the witnessing—
not the holding.
We learn
to be the branch,
not the blossom.
And still—
what a gift,
to be touched at all!
More on poetry.
