Loneliness sits beside me
on my porch steps
in the cool of the evening,
a quiet presence at my right hand.
As I watch the sun set
behind the black-branched oaks
and the swallows swoop and dive
against the western sky,
I feel him take my hand
with quiet intimacy.
At night, he sleeps beside me.
When I wake,
I feel him cold and heavy and there,
a weight. The moon makes him look
bigger and blacker and larger than life.
Please go away! I plead with him.
But I don't have any authority over Loneliness.
He comes and goes as he pleases.
Someone once told me that
feelings must be welcomed as friends
for as long as they stay, and cared for
until they leave on their own.
So I tend to Loneliness and listen to it,
and try to treat it as a messenger of God.
Perhaps if I can find meaning in this loneliness,
I will not be afraid of it anymore,
and I will become wise,
like a quiet-faced sage,
instead of a bewildered
teary-eyed sobbing wretch.
Oh, I hope so.
