It seems love, the one most frequent,
is the flag ripped from atop the mast.
Frayed in passion, and tattered for its zeal –
flying its colors at heavy winds
when it could have been lowered,
and preserved or patched.
Mooring in a harbor with gentle
and steady gusts does not appeal –
we’d risk the high sea, if only to be lost;
little left but floating threads of who
we were within, and what we were without.
Image: an old Monotype, titled, “Sunrise, Stormy Sea”