march, by mary oliver

There isn’t anything in this world but mad love.  Not in this world.  No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love.  And, of course, no reasonable love.  Also there are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving.  But, who wants easier?  We dream of love, we moon about, thinking of Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan, or the lost queen rushing away over the Irish sea, all doom and splendor.  Today, on the beach, an old man was sitting in the sun.  I called out to him, and he turned.  His face was like an empty pot.  I remember his tall, pale wife; she died long ago.  I remember his daughter-in-law.  When she died, hard, and too young, he wept in the streets.  He picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and threw them at the sea.  Oh, how he loved his wife.  Oh, how he loved young Barbara.  I stood in front of him, not expecting any answer yet not wanting to pass without some greeting.  But his face had gone back to whatever he was dreaming.  Something touched me, lightly, like a knife-blade.  I felt I was bleeding, though just a little, a hint.  Inside I flared hot, then cold.  I thought of you.  Whom I love, madly.

(March, by Mary Oliver, from White Pine, p.53)