Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore on LOVE!

Love is a nectar pressed from a silvery grape plucked from the Unseen just hanging ever so slightly over the Garden wall into
this world. The vine has many delicious souls incorporated into its maze. The arbor is the place for bells. Each touch of wisdom’swind matures the grapes, and their fermentation is love.
We cannot talk about love in the street-digger’s ditch.We can’t talk about it hip-deep in mud, with the stink of the world on our clothes.Then it is only the loud laughter of quick relief, not the
arduous journey.
We have to talk about love in the place where the pure drunks congregate who know the bell-clear Name of the Beloved, and are not afraid. It is a place of proclamations, and lack of all restraint. It is a place where the next world’s boughs hang close to the earth within easy reach.
Slender herons fly across the silhouette of love’s foliage at angles in a white sky. Love is a scent that has the gaunt-eyed standing at newly opened doors begging for audience.Love weaves hair into Renaissance knots with tiny neon flowers only the wisest bees discover to sip its nectar.Love is a terrible wave only the most intrepid navigator dares enter. Let us not
talk about love. It cannot be mentioned in the marketplace. In the boardrooms of America love has gone astray, and the object misplaced.Love is a harsh master jealous of duplicity. Love is a
lone eagle proud on a harsh rock.
Love is a faint glow in the distance on the high seas, but enough for the lone survivor. It is the
pocket of calm between two rough sheets of sandstorm.
It is the sandstorm itself.
It is a taste that will test the taster who gives up all doubts and takes a leap that leaves a chasm forever between what he once was and what he has now become. Time turns the gulf into a canyon so wide there is no turning back. Love is a
mysterious guide on a mist-filled mountain path that winds around severe peaks, and passes caves cut into the liquid rock-crystal of dream. But it
goes past them.
There is no animal capable, in all its animal innocence, of embodying the full dimension of love. Love is not for the lower beasts, even though their loyalty partakes of a portion of its sea.
No space of creation is without it. Even in the darkest depths of the sea.
It drives us on.
It takes hold.
It brings some into the land of a foolishness so wise only few understand its language. Birds understand it. They stitch the
daylight skies with its syllables.
The brilliant light of silence knows it.
The hopeless lover with
moist eyes
knows it.