… and one said, ah, behold how we have aged, traveling
from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward …
—Louise Gluck, “Parable”
Sometimes there is in me a longing
for a different path. Of course I love
this one with its paradoxes. Waterfalls
in the desert. Snow in the sundrunk field.
And in every dark corner, so much light.
But still we are ruled by night leading to day
leading to night. There is no standing still.
There is no leap to the side, no hiding
in the folds of the day. No lingering
in the flower of you, my legs swathed
in grains of mystery. Only glimpses of a world
beyond syllables. Only a dream of a time
when we wander from ripeness
to ripeness to gathering ripeness.
I do my best to fall in love with the way
things are. It is not hard, most of the time.
And I carry flame with me everywhere so
that no matter what, I always have an ember
for you. It is easier that that way, knowing
I need to be brave. And day turns to night, turns to day.