Love can never be a planned thing,
Something that can be seeded,
Nurtured with gentle appreciation,
A bud warmed by a predicable hand.
Watered, and carefully pruned,
Until it flowers into maturity.
Love is a wild and maddening thing,
It staggers, buffets, and tears away,
Pulling your feet from the ground,
Leaving you wild-eyed and breathless,
Desperation makes your need a cry,
And grasping hands lock on for dear life.
So what love will ever the gardener enjoy,
As the tempest destroys their efforts?