Stone-blind, we carried you
past the boundaries
of our apprehending,
trying, still, to recognize
some sense
in the invisible.
Oath-deaf,
we dug tunnels for dark hours
under sympathy,
emptying our heads
of its ringing
significance
and filling them
instead with the glory
of its grief.
Then, mutely, we agreed—
there are still songs
left to be written, but we
won't know how they'll
go until we catch
our children singing.
