Would they want me
to open their diaries, journals,
read their letters,
these people of this house?
The desk covered with forlorn light,
historical clocks, knickknacks.
Their souls in the drawers,
in the clothes hanging limp
in the closet.
What would I learn of them?
Should I excuse my curiosity?
I want something, but what?
Why my life is wandering among theirs?
How much should we know of anything?
Does God intrude?
Look behind doors at the struggling soul?
It is so hard,
an old woman might say,
to be spiritual,
to be good,
to live without guilt or regret.
And the man who loves her
would nod,
and go spade the garden.
She would go off to her poem,
to her letter,
fondle an old picture.
Do I want to know that?
What she thought?
It belongs to her life.
Perhaps even God turns away,
and in the Book of Judgment
leaves pages blank.
These are my children.
They are a part of me.
I respect their privacy.