You could look out your window
at a time like this and be moved
by a small bead of water on a tulip bud,
by the earth, fresh turned and black
in the small strip of garden
beneath your hedge.  And remember a time
when it mattered, when the weight of your years
in the world was a little bit less.

You could just walk away
from any encounter
with only a scar.

But now it’s all changed so that every meeting
feels strained and temporary, small consolation
for the loss of each passing day, for every moment
lost, each kiss, each bruise each new idea
gone‑‑a thousand times gone, before it was even tasted,
and no new arrival, no shoot, no stem, no bud
all beaded with April water
can cancel that — balance against it,
console you — among these shadows.

 

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