until it is winter, and they are kissed free.

Lines to a Lover from a Previous Century

after Mir

My love, I have grown old waiting.

My body is no longer tall

or graceful as the cypress.

When I walk it is no longer

as if spring were approaching.

My hips don’t sway as they used to,

like flower-laden branches

moving in the morning breeze.

The coral of my lips,

the pearl of my cheeks,

the raven tresses of my hair —

they have been ravaged by time

and no longer know how

to ensnare a young man’s heart,

or intoxicate like wine.

I have been waiting so long, my love,

for you to take me in your arms

as gently as night envelops evening

to its breast.

I have kept vigil by this window,

waiting for your shadow to grow

from the west, for the sound of your step,

for the sweet lilt of your voice from afar.

Are you not tired of being away, dear heart?

Do you not long to hold me one last time

so we can leave this world

with our bodies as bright as the moon

and stars?

I have grown old waiting, my love,

and this is not a country for the aged.

The lovers here know nothing of time,

of how the soul must pine

before there can be togetherness again.

These women do not blush at a man’s gaze.

Nothing tears their hearts. Nothing breaks.

And the men, they don’t understand longing,

or the thousand yearnings of the heart.

They only want to hold the moment.

Now, they say. Now, as if it were everything.

Now, they want to see and talk and touch.

And when these men leave behind their beloveds,

they are not like moths to the flame.

They do not wander the lanes, lost,

speaking aloud their lovers’ names.

My love, it has been years since you were here,

but my eyes still see you every day, my heart

still beats for your touch.

If you would come to the garden one last time

to pass the long night in my arms,

I promise not to hide when morning comes,

but to see you off into the fields,

to wander there on blistered feet.

Because I knew that love would take my life as forfeit.

When I began I knew how I would end.

Just come to me once again,

so when it’s time to meet my maker

I’ll know to ask the breeze

where to find the vagabond of love.

And when the breeze gathers up

a little dust into the air,

my love, I’ll know to end this wait,

and follow it like a prayer.

The Magic of the Foot

Think of the magic of that foot, comparatively small, upon which your whole weight rests. It’s a miracle, and the dance is a celebration of that miracle.

MARTHA GRAHAM

After

when your body

no longer belongs to you

when it’s still out there

in last night’s darkness