Love is like a river. When blocked by debris it forges a new route. 
When it appears frozen on the surface, it moves still below the surface of the ice, 
swift as fins on a fish.

Love is like a river. Love holds nothing back but gives all, rounds every corner. 
Hoard love in a Hoover dam of thirst and you damage the entire ecosystem. 
Yet the beaver tames the river just long enough to raise its young, 
then lets the river unwind. Everything depends on the river.

Love is like a river. When you are hot, it soothes your ankles. 
When you are lost, the river says: “Follow me.” All of life, 
and even the earth itself, depends on the river. Because 
the river loves all, it nurtures both trout and blue heron. 

The river holds two opposing elements in its mind and resolves 
any conflict by giving itself over and over, drop by drop 
over to the hard heart of the rock, so that even bedrock, 
worn down by the river, is softer 
than the human heart.

The river folds itself between a rock
and the hard place
of your heart—that parched
watering hole—
where love crafts the riverbed. 
Love is a river.