The blue dove of the evening brought no forgiveness.*
Forgiveness was not for sale at the marketplace.
A priest mentioned forgiveness while tugging at his wispy beard,
But he didn't actually say anything specific.
The cobblestones of this old street have darkened somewhat with age
And feel hard against the feet. and anyway, where is there to go?
The sins committed are clear.
Some kind of atonement is owed, and remorse
Is painted across the acrimonious omens in the sky.
The blue dove of the evening has long since flown away.
One step follows another and eventually the street becomes a dirt lane,
And then a field, and then goes up the side of the hill
That leads to the far side of the world.
What is there to do but keep faith and climb?
*from Georg Trakl's poem 'The Heart,' translated by Robert Bly
We were walking together through a quiet park
When the sun bent down to me and whispered,
"You will love her to the end of it all."
Who am I to argue with the sun? Even now
As we sit here, her with a book, me writing,
She looks up suddenly to smile at me.
Well into our fourth decade.