Maybe the Friend was always there,
in the fine white light that slants
through the barren trees
of my window, late winter, early eve,
or in the rainbow that appears
on my bathroom wall
as I enter with tears.
Maybe the Friend was always there
is always here
but I
I did not know her
and still don’t know the most of it –
the tenderness,
the patience,
the expectant silence
with which she waits for me
to realize.
