And it is very hard. No more
lying on the floor with the phone
listening to a nocturne—that intimacy.
Soul escapes like a figure
walking quickly, almost but not quite
running, into the woods, wanting
to get away fast from the pain.
And the solitariness of it all—
no one knowing, nothing
to be seen, no sound.
If we could really know
that moment, that silent movement,
we might live our lives differently.
Ask the body what it wants.
Give it to the body. Sing each morning
the way only our voice can
of a cloud of white butterflies,
the river with three holy wells.
Let us meet in the room of our lives,
the room of grieving desire,
while there is time,
before the soul is called back
from the frail crafts of our bodies.