Silently Fierce

I used to think that love would fade
without proper tending and preening
without any crumbs from the table 
of its former feasting desire
but what I know today
is an unthinkable magic, if not tragic
and beautifully, immortally alive
this feeling, this fact—I surely know
that in some forms, love is so pure
so potent—that it needs no maintenance
it feeds itself each morning—each night
while I lie, it flourishes in absense of light
amidst the many threads of fauna
spreading—secretively piercing unexplored depth
earthy and natural—curious and ingenuous 
tenderly self-regenerating
while I heal the aching of my loss
but how can these marvels be so?
the only time pain has ever been pleasant
is in this silently fierce strength of love