The Heart, Always
by David Adès

On matters of forgiveness, I want to say
to you I know, I want to break open
the rusty lock on the vault of compassion

and say to you with a warm voice,
with a hugging-you-in-my-arms-voice
I know, I know.

Autumn days seem suitable for this:
the leaves briefly fluttering to the ground,
the branches forgiving, even in their

looming nakedness. It is becoming easier.
Time is jogging through me on untiring legs
tugging at everything in my hands,

cleansing me, grudgeless.
I can no longer hold on to anything,
so what else but to let it go?

I forgive always, unseen, unheard,
if not always to be forgiven.

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