March
Mary Oliver
There isn't anything in this world but mad love. Not in this world. No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love. And of course, no reasonable love. There are a hundred paths through the world that are easier. But, who wants easier? We dream of love, we moon about, thinking of Romeo, or Juliet, or Tristan, or the lost queen, rushing away over the Irish sea, all doom and splendor. Today, on the beach, an old man was sitting in the sun. I called out to him, his name, and he turned. His face was like an empty pot. I remember his tall, pale wife, she died long ago. I remember his daughter-in-law, whom he loved. When she died, hard, and too young, he wept in the streets. He picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and threw them at the sea. Oh, how he loved his wife. Oh, how he loved young Barbara. I stood in front of him, not expecting any answer, yet not wanting to pass by without a greeting. His face had gone back, to whatever dream he was dreaming. Something touched me, lightly, like a knife blade. Somewhere I felt I was bleeding, though just a little, a hint. Inside, I flared hot, then cold. I thought of you. Whom I love, madly.
