Some think that love is a pot of beans, sitting
on the stove. All day under a low flame
the beans soften and grow fit for eating.
The hourglass empties grain by grain.
But I think it is a flash from the unseen world--
an instant recognition. It is the warp
of gravity that bends the light. It is the whirled
trajectory of an angel's sword.
It is the moment the imagination turns
and declares itself. “I could fall in love
with you,” I said too soon. But a fire burns
where there is fuel. And a circling dove
finds a perch. I am already there it seems.
But until you catch up, I'll pretend I am stirring beans.