For Diolinda, When I Come To Grips With Being Old and Alone

The passion of this heart cares so deeply
For another wound—a pattering in the dark
To mystify the myths of rain. This was
The rhetoric, the cause.
By mutual agreement we ascended this hill
Whose edge
Embraced the dark sky of our noonday.
Our muffled breaths mingled with the mists,
Our sweats with last night’s outpourings among the pines.
No questions were asked.
It was enough that our two silences
Precluded judgment.

You too came with this passion, but not
For another wound. You provided the inspiration
For the heart to bleed.
The muchness of what’s in us was not adequate
To paraphrase our need for seeking.
You are a world you alone could reach, handle,
Redesign.
I am what I am.

But so I must come here again with the passion
That cares so much for another wound.
Alone. This clearing, last night’s discovery,
Suffices the seeker.
One silence to preclude judgment.
The coolness of storied pines for a blanket.
The coolness of earth for a bed.