The two wings of spirituality, Murshid says,
are detachment and independence. But the December weeks,
wordless with you away, are a gaping abyss,
where, like Alaskan nights, a slow procession creeps.
I pretend I am strong enough to be without the sun
and nobly declare, "I know it is all for the best.
I know you need to do this." But anyone can see
my bravado is futile and a frosty jest.
To keep warm, I strike memories like flint.
Even your photo scatters heat. But these
are only sparks. Where's the supernova to print
on my senses fiery and palpable guarantees?
These hands, like some desperate midwife,
want to grasp you in the flesh, hold on for dear life.