There will be love  

poetry for me to write,
with vivid images of small things
and changes like the seasons,
as beautiful as the flight of an eagle.

There will be love

with the moon in black of night–
the rare song a jungle bird sings,
melodious for many reasons
for love–perhaps more regal.

There will be love

and love will have its start,
a midlife crisis, or an end,
but you will be beautiful
best when you dance.

There will be love,

a woman decorated as art,
a riddle of movement as of wind,
unseen, but felt full
circle, and there will be more romance

than less of it.