The room is lit

by the pleasure of children.

The peaceful child takes

persistent love like

candy, acts of affection

like bon-bons.

A carload of compliments equals

a nanosecond of self-

worth

and praise,

the oxygen of the soul’s breath,

is sucked in and in and in,

firing up, repeating and repeating, the sense of well being,,

of high regard and then

burned off at

room temperature.

And love is that choice

of domestic language wherein all words

are spoken, tasted

and instantly consumed.

There is never too much affection.

The capacity

to receive is without

limit, absorbs

the whole multitude of little ways love

is continually expressed

in the home