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Partial recall 

Not able to remember

joy, I imagine it

returned:  shaped like an egg

I think, and colored a faintly

rosy white, buoyant,

lodging at times in the chest

and lifting me lightly, or else

larger, hovering aloft

and to my right, drawing me

slightly upwards against

gravity.  I would know it

by the altered angle of sight.

I think this is not fasting

of the heart, only a change

discovered in the aftermath

of one of the terrible struggles.

Not a sworn poverty:

no more golden

than a mute's silence, who

patiently speaks no lies.

Stilled.  This is called wisdom

by those who call peace wise,

and may be a gift::  they

come wrapped up mysteriously.

And some exchange is customary.

Death and the raspberry handbag

inviting as a stranger's open

door on a long

traveling day

        yet this nubby

        cyclamen sweater

elusive long-preferred passage

         still these scarlet

         handmade sandals

depth

depth

         but a small fine

         raspberry handbag

         never

the less

Late bulletin

We made it.  Perhaps you see us mend

           spading earth for flowers

and learning of compost in a place beyond

your travel.  We expect to be glad,

          finally, of this arrival.

But even now the night garden, turned

again by the sleeping hand, becomes

          graves, tamped and carefully

bordered, in dream sun, and I visit you there.

                                              Continue   In Love With the Angel

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