Thirtieth September

Yesterday I came awake
In the middle of my life
In the presence of
Two small and perfect things.
The girl that sleeps upon my chest
The boy that breathes
in the crook
of my right arm.

And I searched my remembrances
Of the days of my life
For great and virtuous action
That could have won so rich a prize
But though I see my face in theirs
There is nothing in my heart or mind
Worthy of the sight of them.

Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh
Or gift from beyond the orbit of the broken moon
I only know I could not have dreamt of
Stolen or begat
A thing half so precious
As this, the girl
And this, the boy.

So I do all that I am able
With thirty years’ strength and wisdom
To keep and defend my treasures
And lie, still as a stone
Eyes wide and wet
With wonder and with terror
Lest they
Or I
Or the God that dreamt us wake.


2 responses to “Thirtieth September

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