Sometimes I surround myself
with the opposite of emptiness,
with everything I’m lonely for —
water, fish, seaweed and sky.
I’m not lonely when I swim
in the arms of something greater.

I first became lonely in my crib,
when I cried and no one came.
When I grew older, the winter sun
said goodbye too early,
and my parents walked their sad,
separate paths to sleep.

Married, and a mother,
filled with wonder and love,
I tended others,
but sometimes I was still lonely.
Lonely as a sore throat.
Lonely as a child singing in the dark.

Loneliness is born in the past,
lives in the present,
and stalks the future.
Loneliness is what can never be,
though what can never be
is often yearned for.