Passing the Rye Public Library at 6 a.m.

Someone has entered solitude.

She is carrying a pail and duster

into a stack of history and great literature.

It is neither morning nor night.

The sky says one thing

and the solitary cars

headed through town

are twin eyes, yellow and steady.

The clock tower chimes

six silver bells

and sparrows flit

in and out of the spruce

lit with tiny white bulbs.

I stop to see what she sees,

to enter the world

she walks through.

I am blessed in love.

I carry this secret

through a dark town

and wish the solitude she is tending

will pass through her like light.

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