The World
I couldn’t tell one song from another, which bird said what or to whom or for
what reason.
The oak tree seemed to be writing something using very few words.
I couldn’t decide which door to open—they looked the same, or what would
happen when
I did reach out and turn a knob. I thought I was safe, standing there, but my
death remembered
its date: only so many summer nights still stood before me, full moon, waning
moon,
October mornings: what to make of them? which door?
I couldn’t tell which stars were which or how far away any one of
them was, or
which
were still burning or not—their light moving through space like a long late
train,
and I’ve lived on this earth so long, 50 winters, 50 springs and summers,
and all this time stars have stood in the sky—in daylight when I couldn’t see
them, and
at night, when most nights I didn’t look.
About the Author
Marie Howe is author of The Good Thief and, most recently, The Kingdom of Ordinary Time. She teaches at Sarah Lawrence College and Columbia University.
