Lord, without you, it would be easy
to live with no sense of loss—
to miss the wanton war cry of the surf;
the stippled, thirsty surface of this
heirloom soap dish; the haphazard
scattering of light lingering on
mother’s souvenirs, such things
she meant to carry the whole way
home to you. Praise what’s wild
in these trees. What hunkers down
for winter, clothes itself with more
of itself. More praise for the absolute
and utter darkness of these trees
and these four walls. All spoils.
I do not want them.