I still sleep, soundly some nights,
or lie wakeful watching the moon
spread patterns on the bedroom floor.

The coffee I make when I rise
is still black and deep;
I sit early at my desk
and hear the owls call
from tall pines across the way.

And people I love–
here, or there,
letters on the table,
voices on the phone.

Haven’t you always been,
underneath, afraid?
Nothing, life or dying,
is ever forever secure.

We hear the planes
making their scheduled rounds.
Our brothers are imprisoned,
sisters veiled.

Every morning I walk the dog,
and every morning her paws
make their lobed and pointed prints
in mud, or snow.

This was a September 11 poem I wrote in 2002, questioning whether “everything”  Has it?

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