Fear's truth should outFear we truth to tell? Still do we so? Our buried guilt rid selves will gape wide To painful words that grope harsh inside? (They fear of us what we of them do.)
In terrible secrecy schooled thus, We hear our friend: "I cannot meet you" And hear beneath "I will not meet you", And, wounded, think he does not love us.
We need not fear what we of him do: With courage put feared fear to rout; That cruel unwitting gift, guilt, throw out; Trust our own truth has its own strength too.
Then that stance, secure and clear, gives view Of friend as true friend, who tells us true.
Turning pointIn that dark pool where coldest secrets are A needle point of heat has had to form: Through time unmeasured gains against the dark: Slow forms a roil, in long still waters born.
Vague insubstantial presagers of change, Small messages let loose by turbulence, To consciousness by secret routes ascend, The fifty thousandth, only, making sense.
These signs, foreboding ends and startings, heed. Do not think to quosh that aweful pressure, Formed sure, from in your life's beginnings, deep, Which could then erupt in frightful measure.
No, that fate upwelling fear not, nor blench. Face fear and yield: therein does lie your strength.
Begins my dayI wake each morning with the memory Of you (your body's fineness: delicate, Sweet, smooth and strong) actual against me; Firm softness—fingers with a careful touch, Small hesitance deepest feelings stirring.
These things deserve not any wordiness, Except our spirits intermingled are, Through the wide doors of our bodies' wholeness: Not spirits only, bodies merely, but Both in one—fingers with a prayerful touch;
Spirits weaving. The windows of the soul Still trustful shut, I wake each morning with Your spirit, bodily against me, whole. So, deeply touched, a smile begins my day.
On meeting after thirty yearsWords of convention (our ready shield) Set next impulsive revelation Half said, half changed or hid in caution:
Approach, withdraw, the natural shape Of merely five small hours, that meeting Compressed charged vortices containing
(Potent and bewitching) compelling To long winds of half a life, entranced, Alchemy of gene and circumstance
A crucible on whose coals years past We briefly met and, briefly, parted, The furnace fueled, but gold not started.
Blown by the past, anchoring our present, We did well, in five long hours, and went.