I have no time for early morning fears that sap my strength,
exhaust my legs, cloud my eyes.

I say love sustains me, but I don’t feel love gushing
from an underground spring.

Maybe I can’t feel love the way others feel it or speak of it.
Instead, I want protection from pain,

from old age, from death—someone making breakfast
and reminding me that I can still write.

A long cold winter lies ahead, so huge and hollow my heart
cannot hold it, my mind cannot grasp it.

So many people I love have died, and no strangers — or family
who sometimes feel like strangers —

can help me find the vigor, the will, the fury, to face
a fearless dawn.

I can only pray for a dragon’s breath, a mother’s tear, a father’s hug,
a husband’s kiss, a lonely child’s song.