Why Do We Call This Love? Poem by Mark Heathcote

It is rare to fall in love.
And not knowing the wings
Of a discordant dove
The migration calls of winter
But in your heart, you stay.
Forever faithful praying
For less abhorrent weather
And yet in equal blessings
It's both spring and autumn.
With an abundance of everything
You are rooted to this spot, this one courtyard.
A perch, a roost, ever-shrinking,
Thinking, why me, Lord, why me?
Lord, why so few breadcrumbs?
Why do we call this love?