A Palinode for Denska

I had a visitor
last week.

She stayed much longer
than I wanted.
she leaves
on her own accord.

She brought me a gift
from beyond the grave.

A mirror.

I resisted looking.

Then slowly
the observations
I had made of others

appeared
in my own reflection.

I wrote pretty words
about you,
Uncle Denske.

Oh yes,
they were pretty.

Poetic.
Wise.

Impermanence.
Desire.
Compassion.

I thought I understood
something about
your suffering.

I wrote of compassion
without seeing
the small distance
I had placed between us—

your craving,
my understanding.

I did not yet know
the weight
of my own longing,

how easily desire
could construct a world

and convince me
to live inside it.

The visitor knew.

She stayed
until I could see

that compassion
offered from above
is not yet compassion.

Then she turned
the mirror slightly,

and there you were.

And there I was.

Standing
on the same ground.