
Love, it seems,
must also remind
of the sadness in the world,
of all that we need
to protect against.
From sorrow arises
love. Two wrapped-up as one
is love, a pretty bow.
What we stand to lose is all
we’ve ventured to gain.
At the heart’s gate,
a note pinned by a thistle,
so flyaway, sways
in the morning breeze,
discernible only in moonlight,
its message faded by rain.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Extremely moving, Chagall. Got a little teary eyed on that one.
Thank you, Tiffany. Is it OK to admit, I sort of felt the same? It starts for me at ” . . . so flyaway . . . ” 🙂 —–Chagall
Oh gosh, it starts for me at “a note pinned by a thistle”, so yeah, right about the same spot. Perfectly OK to admit. And you know what? It packs the same heart punch in that very place for me upon every re-read because I know what’s coming.
Your comments are themselves a poem in the making. —–Chagall