Look, the eucalyptus, the Atlas pine, br the yellowing ash, all the trees br are gone, and I was older than br all of them. I am older than the moon, br than the stars that fill my plate, br than the unseen planets that huddle br together here at the end of a year br no one wanted. A year more than a year, br in which the sparrows learned br to fly backwards into eternity. br Their brothers and sisters saw this br and refuse to build nests. Before br the week is over they will all br have gone, and the chorus of love br that filled my yard and spilled br into my kitchen each evening br will be gone. I will have to learn br to sing in the voices of pure joy br and pure pain. I will have to forget br my name, my childhood, the years br under the cold dominion of the clock br so that this voice, torn and cracked, br can reach the low hills that shielded br the orange trees once. I will stand br on the back porch as the cold br drifts in, and sing, not for joy, br not for love, not even to be heard. br I will sing so that the darkness br can take hold and whatever br is left, the fallen fruit, the last br leaf, the puzzled squirrel, the child br far from home, lost, will believe br this could be any night. That boy, br walking alone, thinking of nothing br or reciting his favorite names br to the moon and stars, let him br find the home he left this morning, br let him hear a prayer out br of the raging mouth of the wind. br Let him repeat that prayer, br the prayer that night follows day, br that life follows death, that in time br we find our lives. Don't let him see br all that has gone. Let him love br the darkness. Look, he's running br and singing too. He could be happy.