Two Poems

Heloise Writes of Hildegard

Somewhere, a woman singing,
writing a new language.
All her life she’s had visions of light.
But I have yet done nothing for God,
and will arrive at His doorstep with only
these empty hands as offering.
Being-in-need-of-God that I am,
beggar before God that I’ll be
on the day I see His countenance—
I know He’ll take my nothing.
He’ll have to. It’s all I’ll bring,
this one, empty life.

Deep Cistern

Everyone who loved the way we do
loved each other first at a well.
At a cistern they met.

This is the season when ants find their way
into the cracks of homes, the season
of the park’s infant daffodils. The small clouds
your laughter makes in the three a.m. cold.

This time of year and its night, both, belong
to the rumpled possum, its spite-filled eyes.
Aren’t we such poor neighbors—to break
the ancient possum’s silent morning.