dare I?

"But if you'd try this: to be hand in my hand
as in the wineglass the wine is wine.
If you'd try this."

Rilke wrote that, and when I first read it, I felt in it a sorrow—an already having let go of hope. That's how I felt back then, when I was coming to accept that things were not going to work out with the first love of my life, and the poem was like a period at the end of a long sentence. If only you had tried this, I thought at the time. If only I had reached out my hand to you and asked.

I read the poem now with a sense of curious invitation, the but that previously seemed filled with regret now hinting at a gentle redirection of course that just might bring joy into the picture. But if you'd try this, I hear aloud in my head and feel a warm smile spread across my lips. If you'd try this, and serenity settles in.

Dare I ask it aloud this time?