What then is love?

A man holds in the hollow of his open palm a precious seed,
and from his tilling and care, he thinks of the beautiful plant
it will come to be.
This then is hope.

Then the man prepared the soil by the sweat of his brow.
He planted the seed and as it grew from metamorphosis into a sprout,

his calloused hands pulled back the weeds giving it freedom,
and with blistered grip he hoed away the clay,
giving air to the roots allowing the plant to breathe.
He sang joyfully to it as it grew, and cried for it when the winds
were too strong. Every day he said to it how beautiful it was,
and he fed and watered the plant, nurturing
its loveliness until seasons end.
This then is love

There was a man, who reached out to a woman with a caring touch.
In a gentle motion his fingers touched her brow,

then he slowly moved her hair to one side exposing her soft skin,

and he thought of himself and her being together, forever.
This then is hope.

What then is love?