Even If
Brandon Cook
No matter what may come for us, nor how the winds conspire, or the days and spires and skies be cruel
There is always the pleasure of adjusting the lie of the croissant on the plate, or of slightly sliding the sticky bun just so, to make more ample a display of things
And there remains the quiet, nimble joy of a quick, deep breath, staring at the woods across the road, which the robin knows—
Which we could know also, just so
And then, at evening, the uneven scrying of the crickets, in the dark, when we lie awake—opening our ears and hearts to hear them, though they’ve been singing all night long
To hear them in the great “right here”
To listen and hear with lips only whetted for quiet, and no need to reply
Even in the dark, we will find some small, untarnished pleasure
To holds us near
And cling to as a treasure