The Meadow 9 the light inside the pilgrims’ eyes when Death arrives, at last, to show them what it is they’ve always almost been. I’ve so much left to say, is something I would have said, when I was young, if I were knelt in chains among that crowd, if I were face to face with what they see, but it’s evening here, the moon has come— and now I hear my good love’s feet climbing up to stand behind this door, her country voice of open grains and grace that asks me if I’ll open when I can— and I can, I am, I do, I open up and take her in my arms and dance our stumbling way into the dark and lie with her in fever on the floor and rise again, and listen to the dark, the dark that has no reason not to rise, the dark that keeps no secrets but the wind, the simple wind, which gives, and takes away, and carries off the fragrance of our hair— and vaster things—the dead, the lost, the gone, the flocks that turn above us for the spring, the geese that cross above us in the night to find a world they trust will still be there.
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