If you were to ask me where and when love was born,
whether on a sunny afternoon under a shade tree
in the corner of a familiar room,
or under the eaves of a shelter during pouring rain,
I could not know which place to say.
Though equally the place would not have mattered
as much as the work to consumate the creation,
-how it got there-
and the time it took for every nuanced surface and texture
to be smoothed or grooved by wind and weather;
of touches and locked gazes
focused on the horizon,
a slow exhalation of breath
prepared for that exact moment.