42

A Brief Note on Consanguinity

Faith can be silent too,

lived in the mute heart that remembers its one truth

and beats on past young cant and quittance.

The disillusioned hope,

the discovery that change does not come with wishes

gives love room to become itself:

indifferent to scars, enduring the long years

of flippant posturings, certain

of its ordering, in time,

our impersonal ends.

We are lived by it.

And someday it befalls us to discern

the spring violet’s blood kinship to us

within the paradox of all life.

You, my dear, are no alien.