Two Writers

from "To My Wife": So love by love we come at last, As through the exclusions of a rhyme, Or the exactions of a past, To the simplicity of time, The antiquity of grace, where yet We live in terror and delight With love as quiet as regret And love like anger in the night. ----- J. V. Cunningham We meet infrequently -- sometimes every other week -- because we have in common a curious thing: we write. But, more than that, we think. We feel; we do not judge for condemnation, but as a process of selection. We speak as though we understand that flash of insight that can end our speech in sudden chill and labored breath -- a sporadic thrill we value for its rarity when seeing, or producing, something worthy but not wordy.