Sean Patrick Hill

Love Terns

to Erynn

There is no love like theirs.
They couple, I’m told,
for life.

They build no nest
but balance eggs in palms,
on fronds and bare branches.

When trade winds come
roaring off the ocean,
there is no greater exposure,

and terns have no choice,
either they know
or hope

the branch will hold.
I can’t pretend to know
on what such brooding turns.

Theirs is the deepest love.
They must prevail.
The wind will never end.

Return to Volume 4.1

All files © 2005-2012 Blood Orange Review