You never say anything.
I reach into new places
Where water hurts,
And the still clarity of wristbones,
Their slender arcing,
Aches like spring snow, but softer.
Dark leaf shapes do not disintegrate
In the stirred silt,
But how far down things decay!
How the place brightens with cold!
I have said wrong things.
Deep in my breath they wait for me.
Shall I call them back?
They will come of themselves.
For love is a brightening
That stirs outward in rings
To the rims of the places it was laid in.
It is not wasted,
But in light ripples returns again.
My words may therefore diminish
But not fail.
They close to the center.
I keep you in a place so deep and lucid
You cannot be guessed.
From that quiet,
Inward as far as truth can be sounded,
Wells what I am, what you and the water are.
I do not live without you.