This is what I will remember of late February:
opening The Land of Women each noon.
slipping into the mist-swept fields and emotions.
discovering Fiona's trembling hunger as my own.
The irony of this book of deepest longing
in this month of longest waiting.
a Lenten discipline unspoken and barely conscious.
It is his, not mine.
I am left with only this desire,
doubt, and emptiness to hold.
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