The Truth of Love

She lives her emotions within a boundary,
invisible, but set solid as a stone wall.

“The truth of love,” she says,
“is the fire has no empathy for the material it burns.”
She states this matter-of-factly,
carefully leaning toward the campfire
to rearrange the split logs
and help more air reach the fuel.
Her reward is an exponential burst of flames.

He lives his emotions as a nomad,
wandering like wind-blown sand.

His face flickering in the firelight
he foolishly begins to speak, to argue,
gently, perhaps, but contradictory.
“The truth of love is in the consumption,” he says.
“The fire caresses and changes the very essence
and matter becomes energy.
It is not a vicarious experience. It is direct. Personal.”

His rebuttal is a shock to her or
perhaps it is the surprise that her feelings
have hurdled her invisible wall.
But her face reveals none of this,
expressionless, grey eyes staring,
focused intently on his,
as if trying to peer even into his soul.

He stammers, somewhat slightly,
“I mean, ah, I don’t mean to be flip,
facetious. I’m not just tossing off
some witty remark,” he says,
turning his eyes from the fire to hers.
“Love by its very nature embraces,
envelopes. It is the consuming fire
that becomes one with what it burns,”
he finishes, his expression pleading
across the flames.

“I am lost,” she thinks, a smile spreading
like wind blown sand.
“I am found,” he hopes, a smile building
like a wall of stone.

Note: A jigsaw poem from words given to me by my son Stu. The words are material, empathy, fire, truth, exponential, air, foolishly, vacarious, nomad, facetious.