Some love
eats the pomegranate
seeds, knowing
they constitute
a contract signed in red.
Some love, likewise,
bites the apple.
Acts of will
that initiate, propel.
Some love spills
out of the loving cup,
abundance, unexpected
and more than enough.
Act of generation,
regeneration, grace.
Six months into
isolation, I know
that some do not,
cannot, love.
Don’t have it
to give away.
Most do, though,
even, or especially,
if it takes an act of will
to share the fruit
of it, an act of grace
to let it spill.
S. Robbins, September 1, 2020, from Readings

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