How blessed we are.
How quiet the brook is before dawn.
How soft the humus when I press my hand against it.
When you speak something in me softens.
In the vale of your attention I soften.
In August, the moon and the sun share the sky, like lovers whose relationship is nearly always outside time.
Now the goldenrod leans out over the pond.
The deer step gently into the pond.
Ripples reach the far side and continue up the bank into the cool air where I stand electric.
Moonlight fills the hayfield where the tall grass has fallen over in rows.
My heart fills: and worries: and lets go.
Again and again and again.
The traveler I long to hold is nearly here.
The traveler whose lips have called to mine: in prayer, in song, in letters.
For my knees long to bend, my hands to grace soft shoulders.
It is a dream, and not a dream, too.
And I will be here.
For waiting is the perfection of stillness.
And stillness the perfection of love.