Love

 It is a form of madness, so some say,

That overtakes calm reason’s gentle way,

And sweeps aside most practical objections 

In favor of primordial predilections. 

The heart has reasons, reason knows not of,

Declared one thinker. Did he think of love?

Perhaps then love is not a form of treason

But rather greater fealty to reason. 

Logic can puzzle out the hidden drives

That populate the passions of our lives,

But mostly that’s in hindsight’s golden glow. 

In the moment it’s often hard to know

Just how the heart is choosing when it’s choosing,

Resulting in a gladness that’s confusing.