End of Winter

Over the still world, a bird calls

waking solitary among black boughs.

You wanted to be born; I let you be born.

When has my grief ever gotten

in the way of your pleasure?

Plunging ahead

into the dark and light at the same time

eager for sensation

as though you were some new thing, wanting

to express yourselves

all brilliance, all vivacity

never thinking

this would cost you anything,

never imagining the sound of my voice

as anything but part of you—

you won't hear it in the other world,

not clearly again,

not in birdcall or human cry,

not the clear sound, only

persistent echoing

in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye—

the one continuous line

that binds us to each other.