You didn’t have to start the day believing
It would go well. You didn’t have to start
Believing anything. You managed to get up.
You managed make a bed, eat breakfast,
Clean up. You were numbered among
The fortunates in having a bed to wake from.
You had not always been so fortunate.
You might not always be so fortunate.
When you stood out on the driveway,
Surrounded by the homes of other humans
And early winter bones of backyard aspens,
You noticed that the clear light felt good
On your shoulders and neck. There was a lot
To be said for being dead, but one thing
There was not: only the returned to living
Could savor any pleasure. So you savored.
You made no mistake about it. You knew
Every little dangerous pain in every joint,
Every bit of wreckage you had to cart
Through your off and on and on awareness,
The moral, mental, biological morass
Of missed connections and bent intentions,
You knew as well as anyone the price
Of living’s dying every day, but you accepted
The pleasure of the cold light warming
Your back, and you said in all fairness,
This is a fine, fine day. You, you dead man,
You said it, how small a claim, and so it was.
Although the world you make each moment
Is too real for your control, you have some
Clear light you can claim within it. So. So. So.
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