Ghazal

Love is a stream, she said, a process

It took me a while to understand, to process

Past lives were like past loves, eager and ending

Love had always been a trial for me, a process

She bid me look at poor flowers, in suburban gardens

I felt my senses come alive, a slow, burning process

Some things come togther to form the same

things differently. The laws of repetition, of process

No alpha or omega, no middle or twilight or morning

Existing before there was 'before', it was always just process

Were you there, even so, in past lives and dramas

leading me toward you, like a great and powerful process?