The tribal wisdom wasn’t enough
To keep the tribe from disappearing.
But if we study the potsherds and broken tools
We might learn something about living well.
The dances and songs are lost, but the evidence
From the fire pit suggests that the festivals
For planting and harvest went on for weeks,
A sign the participants were devoted
To making the most of what they had.
We can join the tribe if we’re interested
In extending the rituals of the moment,
Like devoting the end of each day to watching
The sun go down with its usual flourish
Behind the garage and the lilac tree.
And then the evening ritual of describing it
In a letter to someone who wants to learn
How to be a witness, a letter in longhand
That reads as if it were written by candlelight,
As if the writer had mastered the ancient art
Of pausing now and then to admire the candle,
Its tongue of upright flame steady and silent
Above the shrinking body. It won’t flare up
Even when wafer-thin, and won’t hold back.