Love was coming. Love was here.
—Sasha Debevec-McKenney from “All Week, I Listened”

You thought it’d sneaked off one morning,
shoes in one hand, done with you,
trying to stealthily make an exit

because Love seemed to have vanished.
At least in the form you most wanted it.
That human, that kitty, that puppy,

that garden so lush over summer
looking so hangdog now, the black eyes
of the Susans truly black and crusty,

though, for some reason, the ginormous
geraniums, though flower-less, still
hunker their bushy green backs

against the rain like great beasts
slouching toward… if not Bethlehem,
someplace, somewhere.

Love is coming, certainly. But love
still lives here with you—in the perennial
spirits of person, puppy, kitty,

which, if you attune your ears just right,
you can sometimes perceive in the
rustle of brittle leaves nearing the fall.

They don’t leave, the leaves.
Already their descendants are busily
forming inside soon-to-be-bare branches.

Love lives there, dear heart. In your
dear heart. In mine. I’m sending you
some right now. Look! Here it comes!

Open yours to catch it.