Why do we sit under trees and speculate now,
about objects of love we hide within us,
we fuss over them,
to gift them to our beloved,
and every time we thought we had met the one,
we gave them away, in ones and twos;
they were many, if only we had not given them
away thinking this must be it.
If not, we would be standing under this
tree today, brimming over,
pining for the one to come into view.
In love, it’s said we are just old curators
of disheveled, inner museums,
fighting sun-beams of dust, in the hope
that the King might arrive just once.