Because

Because, in a wounded universe, the tufts

of grass still glisten, the first daffodil

shoots up through ice-melt, and a red-tailed hawk

perches on a cathedral spire; and because

children toss a fire-red ball in the yard

where a schoolhouse façade was scarred by vandals,

and joggers still circle a dry reservoir;

because a rainbow flaunts its painted ribbons

and slips them somewhere underneath the earth;

because in a smoky bar the trombone blares

louder than street sirens, because those

who can no longer speak of pain are singing;

and when on this wide meadow in the park

a full moon still outshines the city lights,

and on returning home, below the North Star,

I see new bricks-and-glass where the Towers fell;

and I remember my lover's calloused hand

soften in my hand while crab apple blossoms

showered our laps, and a yellow rose

opened with its satellites of orange buds,

because I cannot lose the injured world

without losing the world, I'll have to praise it.