than days of little substance,
sudden laughter and burnt rice,
the comfort of familiar hands.
What more can be gained
than life's small irritations,
the last, best day of stillness,
cool bodies under cotton sheets
Dreaming, perhaps, of what will soon
be lost. And it goes so quickly--
a glass falling from soapy hands,
yarn unraveling across the floor.
What more can we do, then,
but fall headfirst into night,
finding our way from numbness
to somewhere darker, where air
separates from lungs and
sound separates from grief.
Did laughter ever come freely,
will we we wake from this dream.
What more can we bear
than these new ordinary days,
split seams rejoined but not intact,
fear yielding ever deeper love.
My heart sings in recognition
of all that surrounds me.
