They say love blooms while the flowers flourish
and the bees are buzzing
and the birds sing their blissful melodies in the vivid cyan sky.
Love supposedly blossoms as clear skies cast warm sun rays
to the people below
who hope that the season’s affection will remove them of their woes.
Spring radiates ecstasy.
But what populace fail to realize is that love
is not seasonal
nor a timely matter.
Love sprouts haphazardly.
It does not need support to grow but the mere fact that it’s
Cultivating
is enough to marvel at the magnificence.
It’s a budding white rose creeping along the line of the earth
waiting
for the right substances to flourish.
Nonetheless
love can be a weed.
It represents an unpredictable essence
that will surpass anything no matter how many times it is heaved out to be ruined.
It always appears again.
It was a cold and rainy day when I met him. 
People grimaced while hugging their coats
tighter to their bodies
as dark blankets cast shadows over Chicago’s assiduous streets.
Flowers were dying and leaves were turning dark hues of crimson, lemon, and apricot.
But I still found my daylight that day.
No matter how ominous the weather was,
I managed to capture it, cultivate it.

Light was available even in the darkest of times.