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She left yesterday, my anam cara,
those strange sounds signifying
something before words,
some resonating field who formed
my soul friend, somehow
more astonished than me,
who paid attention, simply,
and told about it in ways
us wanderers whisper,
deep in dreams of wild geese
and the willows who wait
(still) by the side of small streams
and sing of passing things,
a few wooden words woven together
with a silence that lets
another voice speak,
that keeps enough room
in our heart to hear
what is.

Go well, lover, lost
in endless questions;
a journey to the grail
and some ancient quest
to uncover what lies beneath
swans and grasshoppers,
and how to kneel in green blades
where everything dies at last
and too soon;
where we must answer this wind
which ruffles the hair of graves
and wills us to be dazzled
by dying light,
maybe even float a little
above this difficult world.

Words a small sacrifice
to our imagination,
harsh and exciting,
with no need for goodness
or repentance;
just a soft rhythm rolling
around an empty basket,
filled with compassion
and all our careful watching.

Mary in love