The World
I couldn't tell one song from another,
which bird said what or to whom or for what reason.
The oak tree seemed to be writing something using very few words.
I couldn't decide which door to open--they looked the same, or what
would happen when I did reach out and turn a knob. I thought I was safe,
standing there
but my death remembered its date:
only so many summer nights still stood before me, full moon, waning moon,
October mornings: what to make of them? which door?
I couldn't tell which stars were which or how far away any one of them was,
or which were still burning or not--their light moving through space like a
long
late train--and I've lived on this earth so long--50 winters, 50 springs and
summers,
and all this time stars in the sky--in daylight
when I couldn't see them, and at night when, most nights, I didn't look.
***
There's a devastating ending to this poem. I appreciate that last line which emphasizes an the appreciation of (or astonishment at) the unappreciated beauty of the world, the realization of the temporariness ("only so many summer night still stood before me..."
No comments:
Post a Comment