Titled (a sonnet upon it)

Hidden in the words of love, a kind of

Eden is afoot, meddling with words

Like scheming snakes, like apple worms.

Poets waste their time on love –

Insipid rhymes rot like dead birds;

Love spells itself in its own terms.

On every page, in every line,

Verses follow their own code,

Each one like a stubborn vine.

Yet gardens must be given time.

Often there’s a hidden road

Underneath the tangled rhyme.

Most love poems hide a riddle.

(Look to the left, and not the middle.)

ML