One cant love without fear of exposing tender parts to pain, nor can one leave love to feeling incomplete, to make sense from pain, never-ending, like glare. As cities drain themselves of love, love lives on in suburbs where wry decanters dream of haunts, grow up tough and unaware in a field of aging brick. Now when Earth as a planet needs tending to, the bushels of waifs need love, and in the forests where man has placed his soul, brooks murmur in the leaves, apples bud in droves.