From time to time
I have to state the facts
about me,
walking slowly in my garden,
sitting in a chair,
not speaking at parties,
listening to my elders
who died yesterday.
Tell you something about this morning.
How I get up.
Why I believe in love,
more than love believes in itself.
Why I believe in destiny,
whether I have one or not,
in goodness and greatness,
and purpose.
The soundness of fresh apples
and mothers,
and pets of all kinds as neighbors.
Responsibility for life,
which I hope doesn’t unravel
the perfect sense of things
and how I arrive at today
not being misjudged.
I have no calluses on my heart.
Never look away from the
plainness of faces,
never doubt higher beauty.
Never lost the joy of being in love,
of sentiment,
of letters and diaries and flowers.
Never ignored moonlight, violets, children,
the diffidence of youth.
I believe in a higher order of unreality.
The music we pour in rivers,
the ultimate hunger of a dream
that can sleep forever,
wake up refreshed,
in love,
writing poems,
being silly,
and not much older than sixteen.