The mailman raps on the door,

or the water meter-reader. 
More than a year of not 
going to church, a year 
of not mingling at the market 
or going to school. Days 
filled with exhaustion and ache 
for any kind of fellowship. But then
the soul, shut away so long, also 
shrinks now at the merest wind, raw 
as  the surface of a purling river. 
You're asked if you really love 
such solitude. But when they say 
love, they mean endure, outlast 
through grief after grief and terrible 
misgiving. How could you admit
the whole sky again inside, the papery 
dust and pollen of flowering trees; 
a body to walk with on some  scarlet
and burnished evening that asks 
you to witness how the light never
stopped dropping into its slot 
nor delivering itself again, 
maybe a little dented but still 
in one piece on the other side.    

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.