In the Cradle

To live several lives at once,
To carry yourself gently, kindly,
Like a cup of water, for miles and miles
Across an arid wasteland,
Across a wild, dense rainforest,
Across mountains and valleys,
Fording rivers in full flood –

And to find on this side a life to treasure,
And on that side, a life to deplore,
And to weave music and words, deeds and thoughts
In this world of make-believe –
In these things, you find comfort.

Ugliness abounds like weeds among us.
Men misread and mistreat women, who misread them.
Hatefulness blooms like a disease,
Erupting in pustules of violence,
Till living makes no sense,
No sense at all.

But look! There blooms a lake of lotuses,
And here, a play written in another century
By a disillusioned playwright lost in despair,
And here, a dog playing in the snow with your child,
And elsewhere, songs about love and heartbreak
In the comfort of golden surroundings,
And the love of a steadfast partner.

Yes, these help.
Herein lies comfort, in which I shall
Wrap myself, like a child in a blanket
Cradled in warmth,
While winter covers a bloody world,
And I dream about dying and being born anew.
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