I tell myself this is how love begins,
with a grumble. A rock in the shoe.
The flowers dead. Sleet.
This is how love begins, with taunting.
With mud on its feet. It begins
when we can’t imagine loving.
It begins when there is no light.
This is how love begins. When
we’re too exhausted to fight,
and as we slump, a door appears,
and we can’t imagine not
walking through it.