How easy it is to get pulled under
by the riptide of numbers, the grip
of statistics dragging us out
in their litany of loss. Some numbers
are too large to reckon, knowing that
each number is a life.
We don’t yet know how to mourn the
particulars of these sums.
For now, count smaller things.
Raindrops on the roof: Thousands –
comfort in a time of drought.
Trees visible from my window: six –
one decked in the fluffy pom poms of spring.
Eggs in the refrigerator: eight –
enough for breakfast, and possibly cake.
Birds in the bush: two –
nattily attired in black and russet and spots.
Dogs at my feet: also two –
both happy that we’re together.
I don’t know if there is some
grand accounting at the end,
a god who’ll weigh your soul
against a feather. It seems unlikely.
But one way or another,
it’s probably worth
considering what counts.
To listen to the poem, please click on its title above.
