If They Come in the Night

Long ago on a night of danger and vigil

a friend said, why are you happy?

He explained (we lay together

on a cold hard floor) what prison

meant because he had done

time, and I talked of the death

of friends. Why are you happy

then, he asked, close to

angry.

I said, I like my life. If I

have to give it back, if they

take it from me, let me

not feel I wasted any, let me

not feel I forgot to love anyone

I meant to love, that I forgot

to give what I held in my hands,

that I forgot to do some little

piece of the work that wanted

to come through.

Sun and moonshine, starshine,

the muted light off the waters

of the bay at night, the white

light of the fog stealing in,

the first spears of morning

touching a face

I love. We all lose

everything. We lose

ourselves. We are lost.

Only what we manage to do

lasts, what love sculpts from us;

but what I count, my rubies, my

children, are those moments

wide open when I know clearly

who I am, who you are, what we

do, a marigold, an oakleaf, a meteor,

with all my senses hungry and filled

at once like a pitcher with light.