hidden poet

Love is a picnic in the park, on a red checked cloth, eating from a bruised wicker basket.
Love is fishing in the summertime.
Love is the smell after rain.
Love is 70 degrees Fahrenheit, or maybe 103.
Love is an old, beat up truck, sputtering and grumbling.
Love is also a new, powerful car that purrs and roars.
Love is clean laundry, especially the smell of clean laundry.
Love is rolling down a hill.
Love is hot soapy water and pruny fingers.
Love is planting something and watching it grow.
Love is a strawberry, except when it's a hedge-apple.
Love is 9-5 and camping on the weekend.
Love is getting up early.
Love is sleeping until the sun wakes you.
Love is the sound of running water.
Love is cleaning the oven.
Love is perfect sunshine dribbling joy onto everything.
Love is a fancy, rustling dress.
Love is also sweats and a t-shirt, hair pulled up.
Love is an exciting new book.
Love is also that old favorite on the bookshelf.
Love is hanging laundry on a clothesline in the sun.
Love is the smell of the prairie.
Love is pouring rain and clapping thunder.
Love is every color imaginable, and the ones you can't imagine too.
Love is a pink tie because it matches her dress.
Love is a sharp Alaskan made knife.
Love is music, hard work, fun and scary.
Love is up and down and all around.
Love is all of these things and, still, Love is perfect.