posted April 14, 2013 02:45 PM            

Who does not love the sun cannot see the sun, nor feel true warmth upon her skin. Without love for the stones, they are speechless. With no affection for the lakes, the trees, and winding paths, one cannot enter out of doors. The blue sky is gray, and the grass is a sorry shade of green. Soil is dirt, and ash is dust. Whole canyons are the size of cups. Nothing moves or breathes, and the simmering wind is forgotten and lost - without love.

Where there is no joy in meeting, a friend is only a stranger, and a stranger is a shadow on the wall. When no thrill discovers you sitting in the sunlight, there is no springtime. Flowers go through the motions of blooming, half-sleeping. Stars blink unimpressively. Insects, minding their business, are pests. The past is like a chain around your neck, and the future is a pit you fall into. Ancestors are ghosts, descendants are dependents, animals are meat, and angels elude imagination - without love.

Yet, how the world unmasks itself, chortles through the leaves that make a forest, and comes smiling to greet you through every space or object; when love unlocks your heart. How the wind plays with your limbs, and carries your shirtsleeves into the dance. How green is the green, how perfect is the water at your ankles. Every miracle is manifest. Every child is a cherub. In the bustle of a city street, a symphony composed by chaos. The subway spotless. Yourself wordless, overcome with listening, or gushing like the poet Ganges, cacophony of subtleties, carried up into the crashing waves.