That the sun is crouched Over the ridge of buildings across The Hudson, waiting to leap into Another day, in this hard year of wars And separations, or that in the brambled ditches By the marina, wild sunflowers sway In complete abandon in the briny wind Are all occasions for gladness after Nights with their dreams like unsheathed knives.

[5] I want to sing a psalm of praise to all that remains here with us and doesn't leave, doesn't wander off like migratory birds, will not flee to the north or the south, will not sing "In the East is my heart, and I dwell at the end of the West." I want to sing to the trees that do not shed their leaves and that suffer the searing summer heat and the cold of winter, and to human beings who do not shed their memories and who suffer more than those who shed everything. But above all, I want to sing a psalm of praise to the lovers who stay together for joy, for sorrow and for joy. To make a home, to make babies, now and in other seasons.

(Translated from the Hebrew by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld)

Everyone here proclaims it. This evening even a blimp circling over the bay was selling us down below something else to buy, and love.

Does this, I wonder, explain my reluctance to utter those words in your presence Adrienne? If so let this longing now speak for my mouth.