And this is love
fleet and transitory
in its constant changefulness,
fleet and lovely
in the novelties of its changing.
This is love,
not brittle with age
and inflexibility
encamped around a besieged hill,
but momentary
with the etherea of eternity.
This is love
wingēd and visiting,
drawn by nectar
painted with pollen -
a promise,
a loan,
an experiment
in being.
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