At first, when the facts are few,
The truth seems more important.
The inconsolable mind
Squints in the glare like the lens
Of a flummoxed camera,
Saturated in beauty,
Uncomfortably confused,
But for love that can ignore
Distractions, blurred horizons,
The foreground resolves itself--
Junipers, wine, a picnic,
A sly, tender book of verse,
The face of the beloved,
Chiaroscuro, in bliss.