Are we a fruit,
a flavor,
a droplet of anguish and happiness
pulsing for an instant
in the heartbeat of the world?
What happens to the connections
between us?
Tea parties,
affairs,
the infinitude
in the orchards we grow.
What will become of autumn apples,
Hanukkah,
Christmas stockings,
shelves of poems,
our hands pulled from each other,
calls fading into space,
help me,
you must not die,
and then silence,
and beyond silence, nothing.
And what can nothing do?
What becomes of the light
cast off by a votive candle?
What breath blows it out?
What becomes of faith?
What can I say to the boy who asks,
Why? Why Papa?