Snow doesn’t cover it,
Nor water, nor the land masses,
Nor half the world in sunlight, half in night.
It isn’t rumbling by in the great wagon of stars,
Nor singing in the birds’ throats when it’s warm
And they can sing. Nothing ails it
When the world’s a plague,
Nor is it poor, it just doesn’t have money.
It is the thing that chooses what will happen,
Of who with whom will spend the sweetest hours,
And weave a store of memories together,
All the better for their lucky struggle.
Neither news nor poems cover it, nor books,
Nor dancing, or the movies, or a children’s tale.
It isn’t sayable, like joy and gravity,
Like holding together when the world holds apart.
Only it can hold the sweet regard we seek
And satisfy us in the prospect of demise.