Love is riverine.
Not always from the North.
But the river
that flows out of our belies.

It begins when we mutter words
and deep groaning from our loins.
Oftentimes, we can not comprehend it,
but it reconciles our flesh with our shadows, above.

Sometimes, it gushes out of us,
with the strength of a coursing river.
At other moods, it ebbs.

Love is riverine.
It trains us to be soldiers.
It says to us, ‘hunt!’
‘Salvage the lost!’

Love is riverine.
It is the wind that plays on our palms.
At its peak,
It flows through us,
like a river.

(C) Rita George


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