Some things are never the same
after we have let our senses
wrap themselves around the ways of this world
with the best of intentions:
a first kiss, a glimpse of Monet’s brushstrokes,
chardonnay on the palate,
a line of Wordsworth uttered
by the tall trees surrounding a lake.
Memories are dusty books
on shelves just out of reach.
We climb the library ladder,
hoping that this time it will be different,
that the sight of the peasant woman
singing vespers in the field
will be as the first time the eye
fell in love with the golden wheat
in which she toils.
Still, I come back to you,
to your rhythms and gait,
the way you arrange place settings
on the table that we share.
You are the exception,
making the world anew
as you rise each day like a resurrection.
(written in 1969)