touch me, remind me who I am

Summer is late, my heart. 

Words plucked out of the air 

some forty years ago 

when I was wild with love 

and torn almost in two 

scatter like leaves this night 

of whistling wind and rain. 

It is my heart that's late, 

it is my song that's flown. 

Outdoors all afternoon 

under a gunmetal sky 

staking my garden down, 

I kneeled to the crickets trilling 

underfoot as if about 

to burst from their crusty shells; 

and like a child again 

marvelled to hear so clear 

and brave a music pour 

from such a small machine. 

What makes the engine go? 

Desire, desire, desire. 

The longing for the dance 

stirs in the buried life. 

One season only, 

and it's done. 

So let the battered old willow 

thrash against the windowpanes 

and the house timbers creak. 

Darling, do you remember 

the man you married? Touch me, 

remind me who I am. 

 

[Stanley Kunitz {1905-2006} 'Touch Me', from The Best American Poetry 1996, edited by Adrienne Rich]