Love dragged its tail of pain,
its train of static thorns behind it,
and we closed our eyes so that nothing,
so that no wound could divide us.
This crying, it’s not your eyes’ fault;
your hands didn’t plunge that sword;
your feet didn’t seek this path;
this somber honey found its own way to your heart.
When love like a huge wave
carried us, crashed us against the boulder,
it milled us to a single flour,
this sorrow fell into another, sweeter, face:
so in an open season of the light
this wounded springtime was blessed.