because when the wise old man said
that the loving itself
was all that mattered—
somehow, for that moment,
while his suggestion still hung
like perfume in the air,
all the stubborn queries
of how and why and when
that usually knock and crack
and rap and ring, they all laid down
to take a nap,
and in that fragrant silence,
what rose was the most
beautiful tenderness,
a shining faith,
how improbably it opened
like a stone turned iris,
like a bone blooming
into spring.