TALK WITH LIFE

Tell me love is not
a stillborn thought
from the random womb
of evolution.
A futile mortal fruit
from natures fertile imagination.

If not the glue binding birds
to sky; each leaf
to season; each unborne stone
to earth; if just you to me...then what?

If love be just as sweet, but seedless
beyond a human notion, existing now
and someday, not.

But your hand brings cool fingers
caressing creased brow to cheek.
Eyes of your soul searching mine.
Your own forehead smoothed
by a fearless faith in god, in love, in me.

I am hushed.

If love was simply born of chance
I savour with faith the fruit of you,
but this silence around a miracle
taunts me.

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