If it were my will,
I'd throw open the doors,
let the mists in,
and go outside in the rain.
I've confided my clothes
to your closet
and—my secrets—
to your ear.
I've given you the reins
and the whipping cords.
I'll take the stirrup cup
and the whip-poor-will
and go.
If it were my cause,
I'd let the walls mildew;
Let the foundation—crack—
and sink into a ground-swell.
But that's not my cause,
and as for my will—
it is written in your name.
My heart once smitten—
twice broken—
still loves you all the same.
