What Love Is

As dreamy as a spoiled child I thought that love was like a rose - It bloomed at will out in the wild, It thrived in beds like empty prose. Then hardship bent my foolish heart; My fantasies all disappeared. My very self was forged like iron, Was hammered, twisted, purged and seared. And what’s emerged is not so pretty, Not so careless, not so cruel. There you see the stain of fire, There the mark of forger’s tool. So, if nothing else, life’s brought me Transformation, near complete. Gone is all I took for granted, What remains is bittersweet. Here I stand, my pride depleted. Gone my beauty, gone my glory. Yet my life is not defeated; Still unfinished is my story. Now the heart is strong and hopeful, Now the soul is open wide, Now the eyes lift up to sacred Light that comes from deep inside. And love is not a box of candy. Love is not a moonlit kiss. Not a glass of midnight brandy, Nor a bride in dotted swiss. Maybe charming men dismiss me, But I’ve had enough of those. What is love if not devotion? I dry small tears. I fold small clothes.