Rare Instance

Each thing we do not earn we prove with grace:
It is the paradox that accompanies the goodness in our world.
If in black tweed that we see her undertake a walk;
if, in a rare instance, we see her weeping:
even the angle of her raised hand, both to hide
and to erase the evidence of her grief
will astound us; she will not stop walking,
she will be determined on a course and
whether it is the dull artillery of calfskin boots
or the sharp firefight of suede heels,
remain convinced: She can weep; she must,
the way spring rain lets an iris weep
when the sunlight still cuts from a clear horizon as it sets,
conjuring gilt fog, refraction from drop to drop,
so much the brighter for the heavy darkness overhead
which, like all suffering, offers a dialectic:
grief itself, more than analogous to landscapes
and to weather, is a garment to be worn and walked in
with an elegance of purpose that refutes both doubt and criticism
until the route is finished or the rain stops,
the tears are dried and she calls for light cashmere
white linen, choruses of lavender, roses bowing in the sun. 

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