This, too, is love, the way the beans
reach for the fence, the way the fence
does not leave the garden. The way
plants long to be touched—how
it keeps them from growing spindly
and weak. How the spider plant
on the shelf drops tiny white petals
into the cups. You could say it’s just
nature doing what nature does.
I prefer to call it love, the sunflowers
nodding their brown faces east every
morning, the lilies of the valley
spreading their generous perfume.