New tonight, after many old loving thoughts and memories:
15 November 2014
Please Don’t Try to Know What Love Means Here
All night, I walked out too far and too long, and somewhere along the cold way, I went wrong.
Small little creatures the width of my palm or much smaller went scurrying. I sang our song.
Warmth was the pledge at the heart of it; warmth round a hearth, or a bonfire outside, on the beach.
All the old branches of sad garden deadness just gathered and fed to the flames the near reach
of pure magic has called to embolden our senses: Children, these flames reach high year after year.
You’ll never know why your seeking has sought out and found the high reaches that songs will call near;
such subtle calling well back of the mind you’ve been taught to acknowledge—that calling’s our own,
ours, as we run round the ditch and the beach, each alike, where old ghosts give new morningside moan.
Oh I’m a lass made of angels right up to my eyelids, yet I dance with eyes cast right low.
Someone’s my own, yet my moaning won’t own him or me the least sight of the seas that must flow
before we can cast our eyes back and be wed with the magic that sang us awake, and will sing
before the strange shivering silence’s lowness arrests what can die if that’s all we can bring.
Maybe I’m going to walk on, for a small little long ancient way, far past columns that glow
in sight of ideals turned to holidays. All night. Just let us walk on. Don’t let on what we know.