After Four Years

How to lay down her death,
Bring her back living
Into the open heart, the over-grieving,
Bury once and for all the starving breath
And lay down her death?

Not on love’s breast
Lay down this heavy prize
And close at last the open, the gray eyes
Of her who in my woe can find no rest — Not on love’s breast.

And not in solitude
Lay the long burden down,
For she is there awake when I’m alone,
Who cannot sleep yet sorely, sorely would —
Oh, not in solitude!

Now everywhere I’m blind;
On the far journeys
Toward the magical old trees and cities
It’s the same rooted sorrow that I find,
And everywhere I’m blind.

Is there a human prayer
That might unknot prolonged
Unnatural grief, grief that has surely wronged
Her very radiant presence in the air,
Is there a human prayer?

It is poor love, I know,
Mother and marvelous friend,
Over that final poverty to bend
And not remember all the rich life too:
It is poor love, I know.

“Rich love, come in,
Come home, my treasure.
All that you were and that no word can measure
Melt itself through me like a healing balm,
Rich love, come home.”

And here lay down at last
Her long hard death,
And let her be in joy, be ash, not breath‚
And let her gently go into the past‚
Dear world, to rest at last.