It is she who drives the animals from the barn
She who drives the stars to turn, the milk
to churn, She who drives the drunken drones
to go home, she who drives the loudmouths
drunken brawlers, dead cows and merchants
from the great hall of the dark iron night
clearing the space and time for a different
time, different celebration and call,
almost like a fifth chamber to the heart
a new star o'er the tossing season's sea
a new breath a'spring freed

to the lone star,
to the one you
late in the soft
dark gown evening of life.

You are the partner and companion
to her loneliness and aloneness;
she never talks, yet you are the center
of her unspeaking core, her monologue
each disclosure, each opening
stretches your horizon beyond giving
to receive more the world is offering,
You thought you held her, but all this
time she was holding you to the deep
nest of her silence
between her heart beats
silent and expectant, patient mother
even lover; holding your wings
till you fly.

~ A Robert do Rilke Prod. of Woodward Rose~
(Woodward Rose, Stone Crickets on the Path of Eros; a new book of poetry by Robert Thibodeau), the Wit-Nest, the Holy Guardian Angel within each of us frees
by watching in a silence that wakens us