It was getting late in the year,
the sky had been low and overcast for days,
and I was drinking tea in a glassy room
with a woman without children,
a gate through which no one had entered the world.

She was turning the pages of an expensive book
on a coffee table, even though we were drinking tea,
a book of colorful paintings—
a landscape, a portrait, a still life,
a field, a face, a pear and a knife, all turning on the table.

Men had entered there but no girl or boy
had come out, I was thinking oddly
as she stopped at a page of clouds
aloft in a pale sky, tinged with red and gold.
This one is my favorite, she said,

even though it was only a detail, a corner
of a larger painting which she had never seen.
Nor did she want to see the countryside below
or the portrayal of some myth
in order for the billowing clouds to seem complete.

This was enough, this fraction of the whole,
just as the leafy scene in the windows was enough
now that the light was growing dim,
as was she enough, perfectly by herself
in her place in the enormous mural of the world.

defined by physics
described by poets
twirling daughter, centered son
waltzing through created space

small step
     giant leap                
illuminated darkness

lifelines measured
lifetimes managed
birthing mother, waiting father
each day its intended place

the words which nourish my fainting heart
'tis so sweet the rhythm of your voice
faring up and down
drifting with me on good days

catching me on the way down,
down, down - I sink into
the words which nourish my fainting heart
'tis so sweet the rhythm of your voice

I close my eyes and feel
your breath on my cheek
as I turn to discount your sincerity
you reach for me, with
the words which nourish my fainting heart

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;  
  O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!  
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,  
  But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing:  
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;  
  And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,  
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,  
  And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,  
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
  He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,—  
'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
  Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.'  
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right  
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.