A stream not a lake

 

Love is a stream, not a lake;

it rushes and roves

in meandering paths

gathering in occasional pools

where eddies twist for a while.

Lakes go nowhere

holding only history

between their banks.

Streams move on,

growing, touching,

impacting;

sometimes carrying,

sometimes depositing,

their sedimentary consequence. 

 

Love is a stream.

When there's a drought,

heart shred to ribbons,

the starved stream dries

and love is dust.