The Cloister

The last light of a July evening drained

into the streets below: My love and I had hard

things to say and hear, and we sat over

wine, faltering, picking our words carefully.

The afternoon before I had lain across

my bed and my cat leapt up to lie

alongside me, purring and slowly

growing dozy. By this ritual I could

clear some clutter from my baroque brain.

And into that brief vacancy the image

of a horse cantered, coming straight to me,

and I knew it brought hard talk and hurt

and fear. How did we do? A medium job,

which is well above average. But because

she had opened her heart to me as far

as she did, I saw her fierce privacy,

like a gnarled, luxuriant tree all hung

with disappointments, and I knew

that to love her I must love the tree

and the nothing it cares for toe.