Tender God

I’m sorry.
I’m a moth to flame.
My pierced soul
Shows my shame

But it isn’t tawdry.
What I admire most in him
Are his nascent noble virtues
And the way he wrestles with them.

These flashed in his expression.
I don’t know him; what I know
Is he is young and happy
And I’m an ancient widow.

I am now deciding the timing
Must have been a sharp grace;
I felt safest and calmest
Staring into his face,

While caught up in the never
My heart has never wandered
He reminds me what I’m not-
I remind myself all I have squandered.

And what I will never be
Guarantees what I can never possess,
And the pain of more rejection is abated-
More or less.

Trying to make it all make sense
Tastes like sour grapes.
I don’t know why these things are,
But after all the scuffs and scrapes

His eyes are still a sea of calm,
And my tender soul
Is still grateful for the balm
He doesn’t know consoles.