Love is not fate, it's chance and fleeting effect It's four-leaf clovers and heart-shaped rocks It's not manifested or made, it's found and tackled Discovered and tailed, run down and breathlessly confessed Fools and chances, private dances with shameless faith Not soul mates so much as soul makers A jump and a wish and a prayer and amazing good luck If it ever comes by -- if -- you either take it, or you talk yourself down from the ledge and the pledge to love back, to love anyway. To gamble your pride and possibly years of your life is noble if for nothing other than its insane level of hopefulness. If it happens, it happens If you fail, it still happens Don't wait for it, don't search, but rest some small piece in a place of yes. You can't make it come, but you can assume the state of grace that might invite it to stay should it stumble out of a hedge onto a lovely picnic you've laid for yourself on the lawn.
Image credit The Bs via Creative Commons on Flickr