I have loved her for two—
two winters, two springs,
two Aprils and soon to be, two Mays.
I understand Emily, Keats—
I understand how they held on
because it is so rare,
this ability to sustain on so little.
Emotion recognizes it, I think;
something that comes along
so infrequently
makes the moments of a breezing
so plentiful.
The simplicity that such eyes know my own
is oddly sufficient—and I would defend it
until all have left,
until all have lost faith in the forces
that too many fight.
