On That Fruit Seller Reading Qudūri

How can I being myself to count 
The many forms of love

Of mothers tending babies
And fathers burning nights
Of brothers standing silent watch
Over their brothers rights

Of sisters gone downriver
And queens becoming mothers
Or a prophet drawing back
The angel wrath above all others

I’ll take the simple love of one
For whom he’s never met
From whom he has inherited
A wealth of intellect

Just sitting by his stock of fruit
Qudūrī in his hands
For time is his who fills it with
A humbleness that spans

Eternity, and angels marvel:
Now there’s a love to love