I wish I could reassure you that soon,
this brooding will fade, this ache
seemingly fixed on the edge of the daily;
ink-green of a forest encircling the little
clearings we make and have come to call
our residence—our flour-dusted streets
and neat hedges, the cotton squares
on which we rest our heads to sleep.
Animals call to each other at the edge
of the river and in the eaves of trees. They,
too, must swallow the hard seeds of chance.
Everything passes through our bodies:
we take what sustenance we can, and let go
of the sorrow which glimmers in heaps,
in moonlight. Look, these are the things
that must not have been strong enough
to keep resisting toward the idea of joy.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
