As a storm-lopped tree corrects its shape
over a few green seasons, so time
closes around the hole in itself
left by the terrible event.
(in the quiet room suddenly the ice
in your glass hisses and cracks—)
So years have carried you, far beyond
the site of your old derailment,
the place where once you caused
harm to yourself and others;
it is behind you now,
and the damage, behind us all.
The chainbelt of time
runs around and around.
Moon walks where it wants to,
like cats in high places.
Sun gilds the buildings…
And moments of animal well-being
may be all that’s left us, may well be.
To be grateful for neutral days.
To snip a strip of char
from a blackened wick, then watch
how the lamp comes alive again.
Robyn Sarah will publish a new collection, My Shoes Are Killing Me, in April.