In the room they were never alone.
Not the man in the corner resting his body,
nor the woman who watched from the window
squalls gathering in the north.
When they moved, it moved.
When they settled into a posture, it did the same.
When they closed their eyes, it tucked itself into itself.
And while the woman only saw what sparked
beyond the field, and the man rarely lifted
his gaze above the floor,
both were content at their ends of the room,
guarding the sensation.
Though at times they thought it might have vanished—
suddenly the walls would diminish
into shadow—they never became troubled
or turned on themselves.
They understood the room had limits,
that some days contained no joy.
But they also knew blessings were given
to be broken then salvaged, that what they loved most
about the world, and each other, could be reclaimed
in a gesture or tracing of light.
Poems by Richard Callin:
TIMES TEN: An Anthology of Northern California Poets