Oh, stop wringing your hands.
There’s not a thing you can do
to restore what you foolishly thought
was normal. There is no such thing
and never was. You can’t bring back
a past that didn’t happen.
All of it, all of it, every year of it,
every moment of it, is a construction
of your wishes and beliefs, of your fears.
Put on your coat.
Go out into the world.
Listen to the song sparrows
claiming their spaces.
Look at the scilla blossoms
under the gingko tree—
you say they are blue,
but who knows what they say