Only begin, and the rest will follow.
--- David Wagoner, “The Source”
I’ve been meaning to tell you, for some time now,
How afraid I am of this age, of its dormant bodies.
Somewhere, an old window is opened and the charged air
Begins its steady reclaiming of spaces,
Whispering its many names to the furniture,
Nudging them into small motions. All around,
The cobwebs are dancing to wind music.
A spider, sensing the sudden change,
Scurries back into the shadows.
Someone has arrived. He takes off his hat,
Looks around, considers the architecture.
He runs his fingers on each object, names them.
He is walking to the window, his footsteps leaving good,
Clear prints on the floor, making good, clear sounds.
You may see this yet. Notice how the hours
Become the only constant, how the birds outside
Make only strange noises. The once familiar
Has given way to the private dark. Get up.
The ordinary days are slipping by.
Step to the window. So that one day
I may wake to the sound of footsteps, like a homecoming.
“Let me in,” I will say. “Let me share your long sorrow.”
