Steve Pearson Poetry

love follows
the river’s run,
the rising sun,
the path in some
stilted minds.
in others it finds
its own way.
man to man
love the same,
at a lover’s name
or a glance known
as his own,
from her to her
a word, a word
expressed alike
given to make
that love is heard.
love’s number is two
no matter who,
nor comparative gender,
a smile still sends her
to the river’s side
and wherever the sun
you find
that love is blind.

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