Love is the gentle breeze
that seems to sweep clean along the banks
as it follows the curves of the winding brook.
It lifts the debris without thought or blame
and swiftly deposits it in the
brisk flow of the brook's current,
or finds a hiding spot among
the decaying undergrowth.
It finds no blame nor condescends.
Love does as it has always done—
it continues.

                Author-Kenn Francart
               Copyright © April 1991