I’m tired of tragedy, poems that weep
and tell of nought but aching hearts and bones,
of endless fruitless loves and restless sleep,
agony, dreams of stairs and swords and stones.
The world will end, yes. I will die. I know
there will be days of rain and colder wind
driving brown leaves before the blowing snow,
years of days piled up in pain and sin.
But I have seen an ash tree down the road
that snapped in half last winter under ice:
the broken trunk has sprouted forth in green.
And have you noticed that the geese have come again?
To preach that life is dreary, and to fear it,
that is the deadly sin against the Spirit.