Maundy Thursday

The day before

you died,

it was spring.

You told me

I was wild,

and you loved me.

The wind blew from everywhere

at once. You snatched

my hand and steered

me, through stinging

nettles, to the ridge.

We stood, clutching

the wire, swaying

like windblown grass.

You wrapped me

in laughter, drew

the whole world

into your eyes.

I remember no single tree,

or rock, or flower,

only The import

of a thing surrounded,

Here in body.

You did not know

you were making symbols

for the rest of my life.

Italics: Richard Wilbur: “The Eye”