Whether they bend as still as black leaves curved
And hanging in heavy dew in the grey dusk,
Or whether they wait as motionless as ice-coated
Insects and spears of roots on a northern cliff;
Whether they tighten once like the last white edge
Of primrose taken suddenly skyward
By a gust of frost, or swallow as hard as stones
Careened and scattered by a current of river;
Whether they mourn by the bright line of grief
Running like a spine of glass straight through the sound
Of their songs, or whether they fall quietly
Through indefinite darkness like a seed of sorrel
Bound alive beneath snow;
Whether their eyes are wet in the night, their foreheads
Damp and fragrant, or whether the orifices of their bodies
Are as dry and withered as broken cholla
Lying on a dusty plain;
Whether they mourn in multitudes, blessed
Like a congregation of winter forests moaning for the white
Drifting children of storms they can never remember,
Or whether they grieve separately, divided
Even from themselves, parted like golden plovers blown
And calling over a buffeted sea;
Something must come to them, something as clear and fair
And continuous as the eye of the bluegill open in calm water,
Something as silent as the essential spaces of breath
Heard inside the voice naming all of their wishes,
Something touching them in the same way the sun deep
In the pit of the pear touches the spring sky
By the light of its own leaf. A comfort understood like that
Must be present now and possible.
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