On the trees the leaves which once burst open,
each one a miracle, stiffen, and evenings quicken
eager to slip the day and roam the night, to take by
the throat, to bare teeth and nuzzle the rotting,
fecund things that summer has shed and left and spent.
And when the sun comes again in the morning – to warm
and lift the earth’s scent, to harvest the dew for the clouds
and coax us from out of ourselves back to this bent, soiled
world, this rent world – it comes with diminished strength:
ailing; a disappointing and faltering ascent from the night.
I will admit the joy of it: of taking my daughter’s hand;
the sun’s strengthening stand; the children’s voices ringing
high, and singing from playgrounds, and classrooms. Singing
“I love, I hurt, I laugh, I cry”. But I know the darkness too.
The gloom, the night light, and the circadian unanswerable why.