Love may be a locked box,
its key molded by our fractured facts,
or love may be like a blizzard, one flake,
then everything, fanning open like a book.
In my heart is a man writing home from war,
in his heart, the feeling that love
is like digging a hole in the rain.
But those are ideas about love, actual love
may be a miracle of chemistry, or some other magic,
such as what happens under an August moon
when the night is soft with wine and music.