You are not surprised at the force of the storm -
you have seen it growing.
The trees flee. Their flight
set the boulevards screaming. And you know:
he whom they flee is the one
you move toward. All your senses
sing him, as you stand at the window.
The weeks stood still in summer.
The trees' blood rose. Now you feel
it wants to sink back
into the source everything. You thought
you could trust that power
when you plucked the fruit:
now it becomes a riddle again,
and you again a stranger.
Summer was like your house: you knew
wheer each thing stood.
Now you must go out into your heart
as onto a vast plain. Now
the immense loneliness begins.
The days go numb, the wind
sucks the world from your sense like withered leaves.
Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.
Be earth now, and evensong.
Be the ground lying under the sky.
Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all
can feel ou when he reaches for you.
Rainer Maria Rilke