Unnamed
The world asks you to surrender
more than you carry. A garden trowel
held loosely in a gingham apron pocket,
a watch burnished drab from ticking,
a feather found just when your belief
in feathers had vanished. So much is
asked of our tender human souls.
So many things we could never part with.
And, yet, on a day like every other day,
walking in sunlight down a hill,
the morning’s flash-force glint touches
your breath and you stop, empty as
you dare to feel, and reach for something,
unnamed, to find the weight of it is comfort.
—Sharon Rousseau
This article appears in November 2016.
