Passing the Rye Public Library at 6 a.m.
Someone has entered solitude.
She is carrying a pail and duster
into a stack of history and great literature.
It is neither morning nor night.
The sky says one thing
and the solitary cars
headed through town
are twin eyes, yellow and steady.
The clock tower chimes
six silver bells
and sparrows flit
in and out of the spruce
lit with tiny white bulbs.
I stop to see what she sees,
to enter the world
she walks through.
I am blessed in love.
I carry this secret
through a dark town
and wish the solitude she is tending
will pass through her like light.