How many evenings in ten years;
most spent—reading aloud, listening—
trying to be conscious of their joy?
Today one child is still only ten.
The other is only, still only five.
Time disappears into their growing.
Sometimes you think that even
to be conscious is not enough—
then you despair, like a castaway,
fingers cupped on the sea’s edge,
afraid to sip when it is the whole sea
you are dying, dying to drink.
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