You are just one person.
That's all you are;
One person at a time,
And you can only do what is possible.
It is fortunate, then, that many things are possible.
It isn't the pain you are afraid of, after all.
It is loss.
You fear the loss of things which now belong to you
Like kindness and laughter,
And of yourself, who you have come to love at last
As well as of the dearest possibilities
Which are the lilypads you rest on
You cannot guard against loss.
By its nature it is an absence.
You can't fight what isn't there.
You can only value things well enough
Before they are taken.
You can only hope you are yet to be granted more seasons.
More waking springs and rich harvests.
More summers where the heat calls out for a saxophone and ice.
More winter snowflakes and frozen rivers.
The only thing to be done
Is to sit here a little while longer
And hold the sunlight close to you.
To let yourself be aware of love,
Of its constancy and its greatness,
And to remember how much it comforts you
To know the people you know.
You may not choose what will be taken
But you choose what you let go of.
You do not need all of this suffering,
There is enough of it
In any given minute
Without your worries offering you more.
Relinquish them if you can.
They are neither wise nor useful.
There are some miracles we need to be reminded of;
Like ducks in our neighbour's garden
And pink flowers provocative enough to grow as the leaves are falling,
And more than even these, all manner of recoveries
Like the beginnings of the one that has allowed you, even now,
To write outside after years of only growing words
Without fresh air.
I am hurting but I am here.
So, I celebrate the heart's necessities,
Some of which, like garden poetry,
Were almost lost to me, forever