My lover is not the same

My lover will never

be the same,

like some tattered portrait

in a dining room,

dusty and faded,

for she is a living being:

open, bold, aging

and moving in life’s circus

of delights and falls.


No, indeed!


My love is not the same

from day-to-day,

for she sways with the winds

and walks on uneven ground,

and she remembers herself

as a young woman

finding her place

in the shifting world.


My love is constant

in one respect only:

she is my friend,

divine and spirited;

but even in this,

I ever move with her

and we hold each other’s hands

across these plains

full of pits and bogs

and challenging and

awesome things.


My lover is not the same.


No, indeed!


But would I want her to be?


I think if she were

to stand still

she would sink in

the mud of despair

and die of boredom’s grief,

and I would follow her

to the same mirky fate.


O my lover,

never be still till you

lose your breath and die,

and even then,

in my florid memories of you,

in my feelings you created strong,

you will always be

the one that flew with

and stood against life,

and wrestled with

its epic unfair pain.