Sunday

Untitled

Source: Favim
That poet you scorned
for retiring when he was forty,

then beginning thirty years later
with the same voice and style
The crack in his life invisible

What he said in youth
and approaching death
having the same breath
that precise pitch
unaffected by time

What a wonder I think now
after all those wars and eras
of love he must have passed through

not one gesture altered
as he wrote, as if he always slept
this way beside her

What could we learn
by leaving the color blue
for another?

~ Michael Ondaatje