Mine Is the Night, with All Her Stars

you have around you a bit of solitude. mine is filled with the forest, the night sky, books, poetry, animals, laughter, wine, tea, cozy sweaters. it’s not perfect. it’s a little messy. but it’s my bit of solitude around me. I make it inviting for other people. there’s tea and wine for them, they can borrow books. mostly I’ve made it a place for listening. come and sit, and I’ll listen. now, most people will only come in and sit because it is comfortable. they’re neither malicious nor narcissistic; they simply aren’t aware enough of you as a person to love you for who you are. some people, your people, will come along in life and will sit in wonder of who you are, and you will love them for who they are. my people, they love my poetry, they love the stars with me, they’ll sit with a glass of wine and talk about the mysteries of the cosmos for hours. they’re hard to come by, but you’ll collect a group of these platonic lovers as you live. they’re the ones you share your secret and sacred bits of solitude with.

She gazed, and listen'd, and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild,—

'All this is when he comes.' She ceased:

The light thrill'd past her, fill'd

With Angels, in strong level lapse.

Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their flight

Was vague 'mid the poised spheres.

And then she cast her arms along

The golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands,

And wept. (I heard her tears.)