There is only joy in love, she said.
But what about grief, I asked,
The grief that feels like stone?
That’s fear, she said, when you think
love is gone. Love is never gone.
It’s a real thing, he says,
Musing of moving from Mauna Lani
To Austria, Poland, Prague, or Germany.
Haven’t been to the ocean
In three months, he says,
As he pecks out letters,
One by one, on the keyboard.
Of course, we later joke
About wanting island fever:
A life absent of snow, of the ice
We slipped upon, of gray days.
But to trade the aspen,
With its bare arms,
And its crystaling rime
And silence, the way it pleads,
The way it trembles
Among its roots, from start
To start to start–
That anticipation, that loneliness,
That incredible wonder—
Even in paradise, the heart
Has its hole. It has its terrible
Brokenness, and its frantic
Longing to be away.