For this joy I will pay a price.
For years and countless blessings.
Bushels of apples,
dancing with my sweetheart,
watching my children grow,
my grandsons becoming more beautiful
with time.
The balm of health, of recovery.
Of finding the surprise of happiness
every hour, for the taking.
And then, not in a burst,
but slowly,
a second sight.
The earth,
the ruins at the base of cities,
the decay of humus nourishing gardens.
The old pushing the carriages
of the young.
I see the debris of broken windows,
crumpling walls,
cracked mortar,
the cordillera of a great tree’s bark,
artifacts accumulating
in the grassy wastes of roads,
around my house,
journals, antiques, souvenirs,
pictures,
what nots,
what for?
And I looked shyly at the ceiling,
listened to rattling paper,
as if a list were being opened,
a list of things done and neglected,
love, charity,
the commonplace of the miraculous.
And then,
as if a blanket were put around my shoulders,
my life enveloped me,
and a question.
Would it be warm enough in Paradise?
Would it be soft and beautifully woven?
Would it be clean
with the smell of fresh air and water?
Would it be big enough to share with others,
comfort them when your arms are no longer near?
And then I understand there was no price
for my life.
It’s worth exactly what I believe it’s worth,
the truth.