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Love, as the poet says, is like the spring. it grows on you and seduces you slowly and gently, but it holds tight like the roots of a tree. you don't know until you're ready to go that you can't move, that you would have to mutilate yourself in order to be free. that's the feeling. it doesn't last, at least it doesn't have to. but it holds on like a steel claw in your chest. even if the tree dies, the roots cling to you. i've seen men and women give up everything for love that once was.

-Walter Mosley

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Love, As The Poet Says, Is Like

Walter Mosley

Love, as the poet says, is like the spring. it grows on you and seduces you slowly and gently, but it holds tight like the roots of a tree. you don't know until you're ready to go that you can't move, that you would have to mutilate yourself in order to be free. that's the feeling. it doesn't last, at least it doesn't have to. but it holds on like a steel claw in your chest. even if the tree dies, the roots cling to you. i've seen men and women give up everything for love that once was.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"love, as the poet says, is like the spring. it grows on you and seduces you slowly and gently, but it holds tight like the roots of a tree. you don&amp;#039;t know until you&amp;#039;re ready to go that you can&amp;#039;t move, that you would have to mutilate yourself in order to be free. that&amp;#039;s the feeling. it doesn&amp;#039;t last, at least it doesn&amp;#039;t have to. but it holds on like a steel claw in your chest. even if the tree dies, the roots cling to you. i&amp;#039;ve seen men and women give up everything for love that once was."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Walter Mosley</footer>
    <p style="margin-top: 15px; font-size: 0.85rem;"><a href="https://pjdigitalmarketing.com/quote/love-as-the-poet-says-is-like-the-spring-it-grows-on-sb49g" style="color: #8b5cf6; text-decoration: none;">View this quote on Pjdigitalmarketing.com</a></p>
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Giving Up Spring Moving

More From Walter Mosley

There's a tree that grows in brooklyn. some people call it the tree of heaven. no matter where its seed falls, it makes a tree which struggles to reach the sky. it grows in boarded-up lots and out of neglected rubbish heaps. it grows up out of cellar gratings. it is the only tree that grows out of cement. it grows lushly . . . survives without sun, water, and seemingly without earth. it would be considered beautiful except that there are too many of it.

I have seen war. i have seen war on land and sea. i have seen blood running from the wounded. i have seen men coughing out their gassed lungs. i have seen the dead in the mud. i have seen cities destroyed. i have seen 200 limping, exhausted men come out of line—the survivors of a regiment of 1,000 that went forward 48 hours before. i have seen children starving. i have seen the agony of mothers and wives. i hate war.

Consider a tree for a moment. as beautiful as trees are to look at, we don't see what goes on underground - as they grow roots. trees must develop deep roots in order to grow strong and produce their beauty. but we don't see the roots. we just see and enjoy the beauty. in much the same way, what goes on inside of us is like the roots of a tree.

Moss grows where nothing else can grow. it grows on bricks. it grows on tree bark and roofing slate. it grows in the arctic circle and in the balmiest tropics; it also grows on the fur of sloths, on the backs of snails, on decaying human bones. ... it is a resurrection engine. a single clump of mosses can lie dormant and dry for forty years at a stretch, and then vault back again into life with a mere soaking of water.

Violence harms the one who does it as much as the one who receives it. you could cut down a tree with an axe. the axe does violence to the tree, and escapes unharmed. is that how you see it? wood is soft compared to steel, but the sharp steel is dulled as it chops, and the sap of the tree will rust and pit it. the mighty axe does violence to the helpless tree, and is harmed by it. so it is with men, though the harm is in the spirit.

...to be a poet, requires a mythology of the self. the self described is the poet self, to which the daily self (and others) are often ruthlessly sacrificed. the poet self is the real self, the other one is the carrier; and when the poet self dies, the person dies.

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