Robert King Reads
At the first hard shock, a first love
overturned in the instant of a letter,
I was burned by the hurt, if not
in the heart, that tight affectionate knot,
then in the chest, an ache swelling up.
That night I lay in bed watching the rain
burst over our small troubled trees
and cried, mostly from pain but partly,
that young, in tune with the storm’s torrent,
until I stopped. But then, wanting back
that bitter pang, I counted up
every lost thing until I broke out again,
glorying in my new sadness,
delighted to feel it, to feel, my small life
as large as the worldly rain.