It is love that lamps illumine
love in rattled kettles’ steam
staccato love in car horns, squeaking brakes
love between the marching lines
in books, battalions, lives, and weeks
the hum of love beyond the city lights
a full moon—love—behind the black-lined trees
at night—a wound of beauty, love
above the bathing stars, below each blade of grass
love in counting coins, days, tasks, and signs
whiffs of love in ovens
tastes of love’s food, bread and wine
love in laundry waiting to be washed
in silent smoke, seas, the silver sounds of chimes
love creeping in the cracks in walls
buried in sacks and boxes
built high in buildings, low in minor chords
sifting through crowds, wilderness, and wars
listening—bearing what was
holding what is and who knows what will
whistling in wheels and in stones—still
moving the sun and a million other stars
—Hannah Woldum Ragusa
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