Marco Di Caprio

I cross the unbearable light of the sea,
adrift among leaves, among silences,
where sibilant laments resound in me
within the candid sweetness of my grief.

The sea falls behind. I enter the forest
at the ford where the moon moves softly
through shadow and stream, neither cry nor word,
only the rustling of what cannot be named.

I waited for you there, before the pass.
I sensed you. Breath without a name.
With fragile lightness I released my cry
and heard my abyss become voice in the air.

The forest at the ford lies drowned in sea.
The moon circles in the shadowed stream.
All nature asks, and questions, and returns,
and something in the asking loosens grief.

I move toward the shore still full of light,
through the mirror of the yielding air,
through the forest’s depth, the hidden ford,
the passage that opens and does not close.

The moonlight trembles softly through the leaves.
Within the stream a lament rises, fades,
and in its fading makes a space for something
the poem has not yet dared to name.

And there, at last, I found love again.