Edith Tiempo passed away yesterday. She was 92. I feel a strange kind of sadness. I will never meet her. I won’t pretend how much an impact she has made on my life — I didn’t go to the workshop, I wasn’t one of them. But one of her poems has been with me since I was twelve. She has my heart. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to thank her enough.
Near the Wall of a House
Near the wall of a house painted
to look like stone,
I saw visions of God.
A sleepless night that gives others a headache
gave me flowers
opening beautifully inside my brain.
And he who was lost like a dog
will be found like a human being
and brought back home again.
Love is not the last room: there are others
after it, the whole length of the corridor
that has no end.