Untitled II

Sometimes I am
the intrepid interloper
into my own life,
this covert mission of awakening
as if I am alien to all these days
launching grief
into the places
where kindness thrives
in the gardens
among the flowers
and inside the pods of peas
and the lengths of spinach
on a stem.

I have forgotten
after so long
that I don't speak the language
and have no way of gathering hope
into the baskets of experience
that are disguised and carried home
from the village center.

It is a relief
to know
that I am
sustained
and will not
be discovered
until after the moon rises
and blankets the earth
with silvery silence.