The Crouching Woman
It's you, dear Vera, I would remember now,
like a flower I knew before I could name it.
I would show you to the gods,
you vanished one, you unforgotten cry.
Dancer before all else, you hesitated,
paused, as if your youth could be cast in bronze.
Bringing grief and a strange attention,
your music changed the heart.
Then the illness came. Shadows gathered,
a darkness in the blood,
cutting short your springtime.
And, as if your dancing
were a knocking at the door,
it opened, and you entered.
Sonnets to Orpheus I, 25