Under Helga's kneading fingers I found the tears
locked in my body, the forgiving words made plain,
as, dancing to music, they came from all the years,
one by one, to bow and be seen again.
A turning reel of lovers, those who drew near,
as close as flesh can get, to beautify
a gesture or make their presence dear,
that I might learn what it is to sigh.
Yet in their gaze I saw what lives in all,
the dross that falls away and what is kept,
even to the end of time, and felt in awe
of the secret beauty that in my nature slept.
What is the harvest that we take above?
I know now love is the harvest, and only love.