“Who serves best doesn’t always understand.”
—Czeslaw Milosz, “Love”
It was dark, and dense clouds veiled every star.
The trees had dropped their fruit, had lost their leaves.
And the dreams, when they came, had no wings.
I do not understand these things, why sometimes
walls have no ladders, no ropes for clambering up.
Love, there was never a moment when you were alone.
The clouds did not leave you. The bark stayed true.
The wall was likely built by you, your own two hands
fashioning the mortar, the crimson bricks.
And here is my tenderness for a rope. And here are my
dreams to stitch into your own. Here are the stars
I’ve constellated for you. Here are my arms
that will carry wood and water to your ring of stones.