We Like to Call it Love

My body
is breaking, slow
like a frozen

waterfall,
and it’s all right.
I feel it

in my knees,
like the cherry trees
which certainly

are growing,
and also
dying. They still

bloom pink
each spring,
dripping

their wet pollen
onto the noses
of bees. We 

were made
for a grand
coming together,

you and me
and the trees
and all the little things,

and also we
were made for
naught. And isn’t it

a sweet relief
that both
can be?

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