A Defense of Passion
Only to themselves are the passionate
—Marie Ponsot, “Against Fierce Secrets”
But only to ourselves are we ever ourselves.
To the seeing, we are a patch of gleaming dark.
To the searching, we are a lookout.
To the hurting, we are a pointed remark.
To the writing, we are about.
To the philosophizing, we are ignoring.
To the flying, we are unevolved.
To the boring, we are boring.
To the believing, we are mystery solved.
To the governing, we are reluctant, if not unruly.
To the watching, we are flaunting.
To the killing, we are the enemy.
To the weighing, we are wanting.
Even to ourselves, the passionate, we are more often us.