Praise

I roll from the bed mornings
knowing things fade
and renew as they will—

the persistence of mangroves
clinging for soil
to bits of driftwood,
the deliberate trek of mosses
from the Pleistocene
over stone.

Though I remember nothing
from past lives,
they convince me
of something so eternal
it defies memory,
a quiet so deep
even the murmur of thrushes
intrudes on it,
even love
usurps its tranquillity.

I am no longer a small boy:
I bear loss
with an epiphytic ease—
the air sustains me,
the dust,
the well-intentioned residues
of decay.

If I wake tonight
screaming,
remain still—
when morning comes,
all I will remember
are last night's stars ...

what they disturb,
and what they rectify.

Copyright © 2006 Michael Blumenthal All rights reserved
from Days We Would Rather Know
Pleasure Boat Studio
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission