To Barbara
This year both our birthdays end in zero,
Symbol, perhaps, of the nothing we’ll become
Except as the reflections of our children
Your boys, my girls — in the next millennium
Now so near. Who thought we’d see it come?
Let us reflect awhile on us, my dear:
Born fortunate, two creatures petted and well-fed
With milk and vitamins, thus our good teeth and skin;
Curled hair and handmade clothes and patent slippers,
This side of the moat from the desperate unemployed.
Ah yes!– and hasn’t that come round again!
We circle back to the fascinating question:
How did we get from there to where we are?
We’ve perched on the edge of revolution, war,
I in China, you in Pakistan.
We both knew children who have died by fire.
We’re yoked in sympathy for all that’s human,
Having loved those of every tone of skin,
Having lived the loss of extraordinary men.
And the poems we’ve read aloud to one another!
You wave your arm in a wide arc of rapture,
Moved by the Muse, and another glass of wine.
I cherish that characteristic gesture
As you must smile at some oddity of mine.
To truly relish trivia in flower,
Woman-talk of recipes and clothes,
One must be aware of that high discourse
On art and life we could deal with if we chose!
“The flow of soul,” as Pope extravagantly called it,
Unstopped, though years of parting intervene,
Though illness, duties, children interrupt,
We know we’ll go on talking till the end
Or after, when we still reach out in thought,
Or waking, sense the living person near.
The password at the boundary is Friend.
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