by Liam 

I call not, yet love still finds me,

not like thunder, nor lightning,

but as a rising tide that knew my name

long before your lips had shaped it.

With no map in hand, nor lamp to lift,

no track to trace through maze or stone,

I wait in quiet, as days unfold—

and patience calls.

But love rewards—unbidden, watch—

green the ivy through an opening crack,

golden morn spilling amongst the hills,

when I thought not to see the sky.

Day cried.

Might I have sought, it surely fled,

like birds do before my reaching hand.

But love, unlooked for, is unbound,

finds the way, and finds me now.

Smiling.

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