The poets say love encompasses all.
Love is the container
it does not leak
not even if it is thrown into the field and neglected
for a season
because a family member
had more than one
and did not understand
some people do not have even one container.
Filled with dirt, algae and moss, love lies on its side
waiting for the one who threw it
hopes they will remember without being reminded
how hard was the throw
how neglectful the thoughts of containment
as an entitlement.
The vessel stretches out in the warm sun
She has more lessons to teach
and is also getting tired.
Will the one from whose hand she was flung
ever grow up and realize containment is not earned or won
it is given and can die or wither if left alone