I have determined by lessening
the creation of my body, to attribute
these arms on a gray day, these eyes,
to their loves. I have swept the violet,
the crimson, the gold; I have washed
daydreams and night of my variety,
and find now that life is composite
of loves. The madness of divesting
had ended, and here in this bare room
lies each love my mind longs for.
I am awed by the simplicity
after the covering and groping.
One woke earlier than I, and ate
a bowl of little hard-toothed things
to make her eyes clear, I see.
Her day is sweeping, making order
into an empty house, remembering
with sudden glee the childhood of the rain.
Rain at my window, drops like babies,
bring her the joy of peace.
One sleeps, straight and flat
in cool sheets. Voices linger beside
her dreams, and in her arms rustle
pictures of all she loves.
When she wakes she will be far from me
when she wakes alone. Stars tonight,
shine through her window, that she
may know the smallness of life
she speaks of often, and bring her
the greatest joy of living.