One

Think of the earth
and the roots that run through it,
at once
drawing up nutrients
and creating its stability —
though hidden,
essential —
carrying each other.

We carry each other,
in dark and unseen ways,
evident in the light of our doing,
but opaque in how
and for what purpose —
the mechanism —
underneath, ungraspable,
perhaps even untraceable.

Love is not a temple,
except in the way it might look
and can feel.
There are no victors, no sages,
just worms and beetles —
following their own muses —
tinkering in the soil.

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