Sunday, March 21, 2010
at 9:57 AM
There are sorrows keener than these.
Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
burbles from a dripping bush
like the neighbor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.
says it’s alright to call out,
and some do.
A few have cups of tea on their knee,
so delicately balanced they are in danger
of spilling everything— and all the songs
are by people who have gone.
On some faces there is a light:
I know this song, and I am still alive—
and a few know the music from the first bar.
When he plays Deep Purple,
I see the awning over the entrance
to the home where my mother
spent her last days—
and others because they do not.