Lately the wind burns <br />the last leaves and evening <br />comes too late to be <br />of use, lately I learned <br />that the year has turned <br />its face to winter <br />and nothing I say or do <br />can change anything. <br />So I sleep late and waken <br />long after the sun has risen <br />in an empty house and walk <br />the dusty halls or sit <br />and listen to the wind <br />creak in the eaves and struts <br />of this old house. I say <br />tomorrow will be different <br />but I know it won't. <br />I know the days are shortening <br />and when the sun pools <br />at my feet I can reach <br />into that magic circle <br />and not be burned. So <br />I take the few things <br />that matter, my book, <br />my glasses, my father's ring, <br />my brush, and put them aside <br />in a brown sack and wait -- <br />someone is coming for me. <br />A voice I've never heard <br />will speak my name <br />or a face press to the window <br />as mine once pressed <br />when the world held me out. <br />I had to see what it was <br />it loved so much. Nothing <br />had time to show me <br />how a leaf spun itself <br />from water or water cried <br />itself to sleep for <br />every human thirst. Now <br />I must wait and be still <br />and say nothing I don't know, <br />nothing I haven't lived <br />over and over, <br />and that's everything.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/everything-2/
