An inner life constituted in the pages of books
grows steadily, in love, as kindling placed
in the hearth of a fire. And all of the sadness
is coaxed like rivers from eyes: there is nothing
more reassuring than a good cry.
And the resilience of the human spirit, in the dried
wells of a pained past clings like water to glass.
His plain look—unimpressive clothes, a face
that seems though eyes and mouth were mashed
into human form—belie his grandeur beside
the joy of his voice. He finds it in the heart of his
performance.
He remembers the hug in the desperate cold as he
confessed what a struggle it had been, to keep it
a secret from everyone. He told her the truth—the truth—
which is so hard to tell. The tears came rushing
forth.
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