Evening Poetry July 7

From The Book of a Monastic Life from Rilke’s Book of Hours.

I, 17

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads

of her life, and weaves them gratefully

into a single cloth–

it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall

and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.

In the softness of evening

it’s you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,

the unspeakable center of her monologues.

With each disclosure you encompass more

and she stretches beyond what limits her,

to hold you.

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