God never mentioned her until she was ill.
No one discussed her until she died.
I was not allowed to be happy; I learned of her precisely as I cried.
My eyes were streaming as I found out
She had been; too late to know—all that I knew was in doubt—
Doubted the mountain had gold, doubted the river beyond was wide.
God made poetry from her life as her bones were lying there,
As storms raged, and every beast hid in its lair.
People huddled from the cold, complaining of the legendary weather,
And the world, I feared, would forget her altogether.
His poetry, I hoped, would keep her alive, but I wondered
Why His poetry was obscure—had the fates blundered?
Why did her cloudy illness and tears
Move God, the poet: what of her happier years?
Happiness? Everything is revealed in time:
Desire had been her illness. And oh my God she had been mine.
