I don't reproach the spring
for starting up again. I can't blame it for doing what it must year after year. I know that my grief will not stop the green. The grass blade may bend but only in the wind. It doesn't pain me to see that clumps of alders above the water have something to rustle with again. I take note of the fact that the shore of a certain lake is still-as if you were living- as lovely as before. I don't resent the view for its vista of a sun-dazzled bay. I am even able to imagine some, not-us sitting at this minute on a fallen birch trunk. I respect their right to whisper, laugh, and lapse into happy silence. I can even allow that they are bound by love and that he holds her with a living arm. Something freshly birdish starts rustling in the reeds. I sincerely want them to hear it. I don't require changes from the surf, now diligent, now sluggish, obeying not me. I expect nothing from the depths near the woods, first emerald, then sapphire, then black.
There's one thing I won't agree to: my own return. The privilege of presence- I give it up. I survived you by enough, and only by enough, to contemplate from afar.
1923 - 2012
1996 Nobel Prize Literature
Photo Credit: Yours Truly Gibbs Gardens, Ball Ground GA