Ephemera

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.