We love the things we love for what they are—
the knot’s tight fist which fingers coax to feather out,
chipped tooth, false gold, hesitant smile faint beacon from afar;
and yet we love the things we love, difficult for what they are.
Imperfect shape perennially arising from the bath, embarrassed for its scars:
surrender to the ardor that persists, one way or other undeterred by doubt.
This is the way we come to love the things we love for what they are
—the knot’s tight fist which fingers coax to feather out.
In response to Via Negativa: Omen.