A Daughter of the Puritans

She can’t deny that the lives of her forebears

Possessed a drama her life is missing,

A drama intrinsic to their conviction

That they were born not only to life on earth

But to woe or bliss everlasting.

On many nights they studied their own journals,

Asking themselves if the entries revealed

The thoughts of the lost or the thoughts of the saved.

What if the good works they considered listing

Were only clumsy attempts to compensate

For a lack of the requisite hope and faith?

Less drama for her but less worry as well

If the chance for some other life is denied her.

In that case her only task is to dwell on earth

In a manner she’s not ashamed of.

More time and reason to concern herself

With the lives of the last and least,

Now that the promise made them of quick promotion

In another kingdom has been withdrawn.

And now that the world she inhabits

Isn’t a bridge to a better one, she’s inclined

To note in her journal that this Tuesday evening

Is the first warm evening of spring

And she doesn’t know how many springs

Are still left her, though she’s concluded

The number left to her soul will be the same

As the number left to her body.

And now she’s adding a note about the moon

Outside her window, how it doesn’t look pale tonight

With longing for the fire the sun possesses.

It looks glad to be passing along the light it’s receiving,

Providing the dark with a little texture,

The weft of moonlight falling on open ground

And the warp of shadow.