Not long ago, it seemed the fashion
To preach that man was born alone
And died that way, in somber tone,
As if no one could know one’s passion.
Yes, dreary in our solitude,
We sit propped on our wooden chair
Our thought, our anguish, every care
Trapped at an airless altitude.
But was it ever so, this posing?
The infant in his mother’s lap
Already imitates her tap
Of heart, herself himself composing.
And all our thoughts are woven from
Threads bare with crossing times before.
We tread upon an earthen floor
Mounded by prints already come.
And though shales piled as a cairn
May seem locked in their loneliness,
Aspens too stiff and mute to bless
The neighboring boughs for which they yearn,
Their roots are tangled in their depth,
Their weight is pressing all to one,
And that is less than we have done
Who give and take thought, breath for breath.