What love is

Like a Mandala
hand blown sand that spans
intricate connections mapping
overlapping synopsis of our mind;
made and marked with mystic beauty
precise and holding budding promise
we let love grow,
patterns sketched from known terrain
as each one fills a preplanned part.

Meridian blue,
cavalcade of summer sunset
leaves that silver turn upon themselves
taut tightness of a sunburnt skin
till tripping with our self made quirks
we blow the canvas clean.

You're stamping for simplistic rules
to fit your contours to the mystery,
you're drawing life in black and white
when all I see is breath's flow:
the artistry of what might be
if you could feel the dream in me
not straight lines but delicate curved endeavour
expanding in evolution's circus.

Like a Mandala
hand blown sand
embodied with a Master's touch
for eye to feel and mind implode in visual ecstasy
incarnate for a given time
then flung in river's emptiness,
with no regret, no cloying net to cling to
but gratitude for what has been
this is all love is to me
a freedom from possession's fee
and a hope to wait for.