For B.
Yours is a prayer, between many prayers,
That I found years ago,
One that keeps me still.
Yours is a presence—
not only a lesson, of the masterfulness of
friendship, symphonies, and language,
But of the braveness that humanity requires
In all its edges.
Ours is a noviceness, despite a life so fully lived,
Despite the pain so intertwined with the word,
Staying.
Freshness even, or plumpness, is ours;
strangeness too, If I may say.
Ours is the profession of yearning,
Ours is the heresy,
the raw beautiful hideous face of being;
and the ever-avoidable oddity,
I claim that too, as ours.
Mine is the heart that holds,
Some, just a little, great, mighty
Love for you.
And yours it is, to accept,
Or keep,
May you like it.
Ours is the friendship,
That has bloomed yet another flower,
A few days ago last week.