A Sonnet For The Inexact

You ask, child, when you know when one is the one

As if it were calculus or game of chance;

May as well try to grade brightness of the sun,

Timbre of the horn, the lightness of the dance.

I would gladly offer formula or sum

Or another device of science or art,

But the weighty texts and astral charts are mum

In analysis of matters of the heart.

Let me say this, then; let love speak up itself,

In ways that author and alchemist forgot

For its advent will lift you beyond yourself

Without explanation of what it has wrought.

For rule and theory we happily forego

When love steals in and softly says hello.


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