Work of art

I fall in love,
I fall out of love,
stumbling around in the dark of love
like a blind man looking for his hands.

But what is really happening here,
that I nod in and out like a dreamer, half-awake?

The beauty of the sunrise has always been there.
I needn't proclaim it, or sustain it.  It manifestly is.
This, because a work of art has enduring quality,
if its connection to beauty be true.

So also, perhaps love can be a work of art.
With sufficient care, and devoted pain,
one day its nature is self-revealing:

No need to tell my friend, "I love you;"
the fact of living is all the proof we need.