And so it is that Love
threw at my feet her glove,
a long white one, perhaps,
but nonetheless a glove.
I took it up because
I knew the rules, and Love
looked me right in the eyes
and speared me with her words:
“It’s easy to fall in love
with spring, but can you care
for everything—the dross,
the dreck, the scum, the muck,
the loss, the wreck, the grime,
the dust? And can you find them
in you, too? And can
you fall in love with you?