in Poetry Love ~ read.
Soil

Soil

"You could do better," she said.
"But you are best," said I.
"Hardly," said she,
"But hey, nice try."

"No, really," I said,
"I dig you the most."
"But the one that you love,"
She said, "Is a ghost."

"Not a ghost," I said,
"For there is blood in her still,
And warmth in her touch
And a love I can feel."

"Silly boy," she told me,
"Love is not what I mean.
"I love you in brown,
"But your love could be green."

I said, "Brown's a good color!
"It's the color of dirt!"
"How romantic!" she cried.
But her joke didn't hurt.

"Soil is a foundation,"
I explained to her grin.
"And without it no seed
"Of love can begin."

"Some soil is more fertile.
"Some soil is just better."
She argued her point.
For awhile I just let her.

"And what grows from that soil
"Will not be the same.
"My grasses grow wild.
"Their grasses grow tame."

"Silly girl," said I,
Kissing her face.
"I love your wild grasses,
"I love the whole place."

"I'll need lots of care,"
She warned, to my nod.
"I know that, my love,
"Never said you weren't odd."

"But wildness, or oddness,
"These things don't offend.
"I greet them, in fact,
"Like an old, trusted friend."

"You are strange," she replied.
I said, "Good that we met!
"For strangers with strangeness
"Meet rarely, I bet."

"I give up!" she then said.
"You are as hopeless as I!"
"Not hopeless," I said,
"Just hopeful to try."

And that day seeds were planted
And the seeds were two-hearted
And they grew wild together
In the field that we started.

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