If Socrates drank his portion of hemlock willingly,



if the Appalachians have endured unending ages of erosion,



if the wind can learn to read our minds



and moonlight moonlight as a master pickpocket,



surely we can contend with contentment as our commission.







Deer in a stubble field, small birds dreaming



unimaginable dreams in hollow trees,



even the icicles, darling, even the icicles shame us



with their stoicism, their radiant resolve.







Listen to me now: think of something you love



but not too dearly, so the night will steal from us



only what we can afford to lose.





