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Is
this love that rushes toward the rim to meet you
A main thread in the inwardness of things?
Without it would the great externality loosen and unravel?
Is it our purpose to see and say that the world is good?
And could we have seen this and said it, beloved.
While you seemed indubitable?
I do not know.
I stand with hands dangling empty at my sides.
I have no wisdom bequeathed to me by ancestors.
The stars are equivocal, and around me
Nature is in sorest travail, weeping.
I love you.
This is the only sacred word in my keeping.
This is the last trace,
The last print in our hearts’ waste,
Of the migration of a thousand traditions,
A thousand embodiments of wisdom.
I stand with useless hands,
And out of the transparency of my poverty,
I offer you this, my single gift.
Freya Mathews, Professor of Philosophy, La Trobe University,
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