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.