I do not know
the shape of love
though my life
has fit its form.
Not in a human shape
reflecting two faces –
a newborn.
Nor in a ring,
a golden, endless
circle infinite
in its holding.
In the first
yellow daffodils
after the
bones of winter
break
just as the sun hits
the moment of bloom
and the next moment
when their graceful
dancers’ heads
bow and drop
that describes
the shape of it
how we bloom and fall
in an endless, golden
circle.
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