No one waited for my peace to come,
no one lifted a lamp to see if darkness
lay poised to strike within my room, no one
made sacred the food and water of my fasting
with love's flooding tenderness—
except you.
Too late I loved that face. Too late
I came to love you. Too late I saw
how dawn light trembles on the tattered leaves
of worn trees—like a mother's aching gaze
upon her sleeping, grown son's face.
Now my wings are torn on thorns and scalding
rain. From breastbone to throat, only the silent
cry of a name! Perhaps I'll never again
fly beyond white clouds in boundless
surrendering flight. I didn't know then that believing
you would accept me, I was growing
bit by bit like a forest vine. I didn't know
why I had awakened, why I had slept at all!
Too late it grew. How long after the clouds gathered
did your rain-bright face flash! Until you take me
I keep counting each breath—solitary
units. Radiant, my deaf and mute dreams.
How can I say which temple
you'll ignore to take my hand, how can I say
how green-lovely you are, in what serene glory
you dwell from grass to stars,
how can I speak such vast words . . .
you are mine!