The soul flees the poet’s description but not Rilke’s. Rilke’s Ruth is his soul, he writes, she works Boaz’s fields all day, and at night she bathes and settles down in the tent. She asks for nothing but for a cloak to cover her, “Span your wings above me,” Rilke’s Ruth is asking.
It’s June again, the sun flies back high, the open roads once more stand and shine for sure steps to follow their lean curves with conviction. It’s the time of year when I come around from a school-long haze to find my hands busy with work I love so, my asks are small, I trust a happy end much more when awoken.
What is an adult if not a soul that plots, each bright day the plan revealed? Our nobility is enclosed in the itinerary, dark winters make me take on dark fights, a losing of oneself in the parts, the shapes of the land I will plant can be scanned only with a still gaze.
You must have fled yourself a thousand times to look at great roads calmly, to find a home in forward movement and not stop. Ruth bows her head to the heir though she will be one. The soul that knows, Rilke says, is a woman.
The plan rewards not sleepers but keen workers.