I begin to count each pleasure
as a gift the match of which I
will not know again,
seeing the giver mortal
as the pigment in my green
eyes, @brief as snow on dark
branches, seasonal as copper
sunlight in late fall, unreliable
as cardinals that flee from cats
leaving my yard bereft; I
become @the unfaithful lover,
separating largess from the once trusted
Giver.
O, when habit shapes my lips
around songs of praise I tell
myself I would believe in a
place more lovely than this globe
mantled in skies whose shapes
and shades lift my essence
beyond my measure.
But disbelief preses my angle
of vision; I look to the light
of winter, the weight of spring
as if this container that is
myself becomes the beginning, the
end of all
receiving, as if all worlds will
disappear with the sum of you
and me, when we no longer
see.