One moment your life is a stone in you and the next, a star.
—Rainier Maria Rilke, “Sunset”
In the early afternoon of an October Sunday,
the light graces through what is left of the leaves
and I almost gasp as it enters me and I want
to love you like that. And I want to love you
like the long swelling notes that the choir sang
last night, a Latin chant that I don’t understand
but still it stirs deeply in me whatever it is
that too seldom is stirred. And I want to love you
like the wild yeast that rises in bread. Like
a tall glass of pure, clear water. And like the shine
on the slide in the park. I want to be for you
like the breath space that joins together each word
that you speak, to enter your darkness like moon.
And I always fall short. I am not light nor yeast,
not silence nor shine. But I love you. I love you
and sometimes I can drop what I want to be for you
and just be for you, arms open, eyes open,
ears open, hands open in this slow October light.