Love is not very many things;

Love is not definable;
unconstrained by words
the waft and weave of language
leave her untouched and unchanged,
slide their supple nooses and nuances
around her neck, but fail to tie the knot.

Love is not rational;
unchained from reason
she runs free through fields
and moonlit groves in our imagination,
planting the dissenting seeds
that will grow into the ruling bowers of our minds.  

Love is not defensible;
unassailable, what wants she for defence?
How could we shatter that high tower,
her ivory staircase where above all mortal sense
she sits on throne? How then can we defend her;
bereft of reason, she wants no defence, and begets none.

Love is not something one can deal with;
taking our hands,
she leads us in her dance,
and stumbling in our one-step two-step motions,
we are caught up altogether. She spins us on our heels,
and if we are lucky, she won't ever let us stop.

Love is not caught in those thousand little moments,
not tied to those thousand little acts,
not wrapped in those million little lives she dances through -
love is not very many things.

Love is not very many things, and yet -
there she is.