There is no end to love. We may tear ourselves away or fall off the cliff we thought sacred or even burn the home we dreamt of. But when the rain comes slow at a slant and the pavement turns cold, that place where I keep you and you and all of you—that place opens like a wet fist that can no longer stay closed. And the ache returns. Thank God. The sweet and sudden ache that lets me know I am here. The rain keeps misting my face. I am alive. What majesty of cells assembles around this luminous presence that moves around as me? How is it I am still here? Each thing touched, each breath, each glint of light, each pain in my gut is cause for praise. I pray to keep falling in love with everyone I meet, with every child’s eye, with every fallen being getting up. Like the worm cut in two, the heart only grows another heart. When the slash in my open hand heals, I try again. Birds migrate and caribou circle the cold top of the world. Perhaps we migrate between love and suffering, making our wounded-joyous cries: alone, then together. Oh praise the soul’s migration. I fall. I get up. I run from you. I look for you. I am in love with the world.