Of love.

I have walked and walked and walked,
Re-walked, retraced and endlessly paced.
Your place, your hold,
Your touch.
Watching, looking and observing you..
That you,
In all your scores can be,
Beautiful.
Yet painly painfully present,
As grief,
Remaining and remains.
And yet,
For all each year returns,
Each season,
Each,
Cycle.
I see you in all,
In every imaginable way.
The affirming movement of the stars,
The swift,
Flitting passage of clouds
The rebirth of leaves,
The shift of grass beneath the breeze.
I find, you.
Yet for all I see of you,
For all I believe I know of you.
There is this this void,
That does not breathe,
That does not feel,
That does not,
Seem real.
And I know,
When I return to the borders of this place.
I know,
Almost nothing of you.
But I return for what I do,
In what I do.
I return.
Not for wanting or for lust.
Nor for doubt or questions of distrust.
I return,
Because of you,
Because of love.