I Think It Is Such a Beautiful
dawn
and my mind,
which wants to hold things
as they are, cannot hold
this morning,
first of April, spring too early
this year by three weeks,
the daffodils
of my city spurred forward
by the warmth —
cannot hold Brett,
gone,
Patrizia, gone —
not the marching clouds,
not the sky that is perched, unaltering,
above the clouds,
not the methane leaks,
not the whales
suffering the piercing
sounds of boats:
I reach out my hands: one
and then the other,
spread my fingers as the light
falls through them.
* * * * *
Arrival
Not, like Venus, come ashore
on a shell, but out of my own body,
you arrived. First one
and then the other.
Son, then daughter,
as if time—those years
between your births—were folded
and the two births became
one double-emergence:
you, and you, and none other.
The clouds part,
and Helios rides the golden Sun,
glowing, across the sky again.
But not forever.
Counted are even the blades of grass,
the blades of wheat.
And among them, two,
born human: you!
And I, the carriage and horse
who brought you here,
the unextraordinary,
an unmemorable woman
giving birth to this
wonder.
As if I were the chariot
of the whole world’s becoming:
what happens
everyday.
What is not infinite.
What does not stay.