The Death and Life of Love

Cold,
not the bitter bite
of February’s worst,

but a cold more subtle,
born of slow starvation
of a thousand tiny slights

piling high like a glacier
ancient and mighty,
grinding the earth,

gradually destroying
everything
in it’s path.

Heat,
a thing long buried,
dormant and dying under the winter ice,

almost,
but not quite,
quenched,

somehow still glimmering,
a few fading coals,
flickering, waiting

for the perfect mix
of love and promise
to erupt.

About this poem

Love rarely dies fast. Too often it is a torturous death. But it can re-ignite again and again, in a moment. Or so I believe.

Tom