Were Any to Read This

(7 January 1995) after Eva Rose York

Reading each word reconstructs the dance, this song, a field plowed furrow by furrow the future turning into a past this past turning into a future and knowing you, turning these words I give a thought—the milky light of afternoon, for a sun that comes out and disappears, it being a rainy day a day for lying with a book by which words one may see light in light, a life in a life— a thought of generosity no, call it utter selfishness to take and deprive no one to give and receive all You go out to the driveway and begin to rake the leaves and small branches that had blown down in the night I join you in my coat and gloves pick up the broken sticks gather up the wet piles of leaves point out tips of iris and tulips poking up from the soft soil in the fresh air as the sky darkens it begins to rain so we sit on the bench on the porch say hello to neighbors walking back from the park with their dogs on leashes and talk, open the pages reading the words and between the lines Sharing the gift one need never return one need never part from renewing with each reading each word, line, leaf to belie a simple explanation if we’re lucky—a hummingbird arrives to sip sugar water under the porch roof on the edge of the drizzle simple sugar water for the wild gift, glimpse, gone in a moment, we receive, and everlasting were any to read this again.