I’m standing in a place where I once loved.
The rain is falling. The rain is my home.
I think words of longing: a landscape
out to the very edge of what’s possible.
out to the very edge of what’s possible.
I remember you waving your hand
as if wiping mist from the windowpane,
as if wiping mist from the windowpane,
and your face, as if enlarged
from an old blurred photo.
from an old blurred photo.
Once I committed a terrible wrong
to myself and others.
to myself and others.
But the world is beautifully made for doing good
and for resting, like a park bench.
and for resting, like a park bench.
And late in life I discovered
a quiet joy
like a serious disease that’s discovered too late:
a quiet joy
like a serious disease that’s discovered too late:
just a little time left now for quiet joy.
