When the rain stops the porch is a blankness. The yard is, the trees, where I know them to be—.
The power’s been out in the village all night. And one plane puttering above in the darkness.
The darkness grows lengthened by a running light. To know such solitude as this. To know the extent
of sorrow not by sorrow but the memory of joy. The night’s endless darkness. I hear its voice.