The Difficulty Is
I am not yet afraid of this occasion,
my abrupt death, the sinking sense
of the fine leaves and long fingered night;
I am not afraid of the cold lingering light
on the table, near which I sat on so many Octobers,
or watched the May grieve at the tubby
woman next door, or the panting retriever,
or the children at hop skip jump
in an utter and controlled silence.
What I fear is life
that no one holds in their hands,
that goes in every direction
and does not care what it tips over.
There is no silvery meaning in this.
It is the fact that we are the living,
that we touch, hold, kiss.