In the end, I made myself live.
I am the farthest north of my life,
and I know I’m supposed to love
this world though I could shut the door
and pull the drapes until they overlap
like two palms in prayer.
But the tree lichens are shifting
from green to red and I miss the summer’s scent
of lilacs and the bark pockets of trees
that fill with the nests of chickadees.
I understand the longing
for monastic life. All is slant
and when I read the Russian poets
I know I’m not the only one
who equates church bells with death tolls. Sometimes
the setting sun is too heavy for the mountains
to hold. How many times has your red-hot
prayer slipped from your hands?
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