My name is not Patience;
I’ve never been steady.
At the flutter of heart strings
I always am ready
To fly about the world
at a word or a whim
And to fall right in love
And think only of him.
My name is not Constance,
though her traits I may show.
They’re all wrapped up in promises
That feel but don’t know.
I’m a laugh and a look
Wound tight round a heart
That knows how to love
But not how to part.
I’m a master of the exquisite pleasure of falling–
To love and be loved is my life’s true calling.
But the price that I pay is steep and longstanding:
The knowledge of heartache and sighing and landing.
The fall is the beauty, but the fall always ends,
And the once-broken heart never easily mends.