The house, when she was gone too long,
Was like a false cadence, a song
Broken off. The song resumed
When she returned, the house assumed
Its harmony. He was but the silence
Between tones, granting them sense.
He understood, better than before,
The fissure gaping at the core
Of love, dividing take from give,
Something one must learn to live
With, while the other thrives,
Defining sharply married lives.
He still could hear the song
She’d sounded to him for so long,
And even found himself content,
Engaging love’s original intent.
© 2005 F. Wilson