I am trying to write about it. I want to but the words aren't there. What is given in love assumes many forms. That's close but not it exactly.
It has to do with the slow bend, like a river. What is smooth has borne time gently, like a stone, like a stone in a river. The space at night of watching stars alone and knowing you are not alone. How can I share this?
It also has to do with what is pale and warm, like the wild morning glory tangled in grass as spring turns to summer, and the fawn you find nesting there once every ten years. One longs to be worthy of her, there when the calf died, there beneath the bridges of Dublin. Held just so, the curve of the shoulder intimates the luminous circle of eternity. And of course those who dwell in the spinning cones of language long for that which brings them to silence.
The swans that summer watched as I swam, the water rippling as we circled one another. In the middle of the day is when I'm loneliest. The necks of horses in sunlight. And Ireland, where I held her as she slept, and listened to the sea lapping gently the distance.
Words won't do it. They simply lay a trail that might - in this world or another - be followed. The Pieta moves me less than the loveliness of what she offers. It's not this, it's something else, always.