You, on that day of threshing, spoke
of your requirements:

to be upbraided, to be
unloosed from these blue garments.

I recall you sobbing, in twilight,
in the upper garden…

Hush now, listen to me:
you have touched a patch of wet clover suddenly,

gripping the damp earth, rooting
yourself in objects, in perception.

You have pounded against a mass of stone.
Be still, listen to me:

I know what the river has told me
and my own name.

You will also come to know the whiteness of longing.
You will understand what it means to be alone.