Love Is Love
A poet wrote that love is gold
while others say it’s blind
but all I know is what I hold
when you, my love, are kind.
Though words are whirling in my mind
words can be bought and sold
and gold’s a metal that was mined
and made in bricks, so hard and cold –
no, love is love, my love, as we grow old,
then when you’re sitting by the fire
where dying embers of desire
flicker like stories often told,
I’ll come and find you, touch your hand
say words that only you will understand.