Somewhere we know
that without silence words lose their meaning,
that without listening speaking no longer heals,
that without distance closeness cannot cure.
And so I praise the miles that carve
the mountains, praise the hours that cleave
these dayfulls of distance. Praise the longsome weeks.
In the meantime, wild geese delineate sky
with their dark floods of November wing.
They will fly places we’ve never been—
how I want to meet you there and there.
And I won’t let want steal the splendor here:
how the spindle of night unspools till the stars
spill above the rumors of wave in the river
that does not stop. Mygod, it is so beautiful.
I have not stopped loving you across silence.
Between words, this winged love does not stop.