When you are away I stay home, inhabit quiet,
trying to keep close to what is real.
We leave messages for each other
in the things we each see around us.
I am often in the octagonal room,
just sitting. Not sure what I’m waiting for,
watching the gradual shifting of the light
from one window to another. I move
through the house as if through a garden.
Every day I pick a place and call it the center.
The deep past shows through
here and there in random places.
I seem to have taken on motley trappings,
entirely inappropriate for facing fate.
Our lives are being translated into a new language.
Everything assumes speed and distance.
The widening of the field. Living by pulling in light.
The body now a lens for looking far.
For gathering reverence.