Praise the futility of song.
—Ruth Schwartz, Versions of Ghalib: Ghazal 1,
And so today I praise
the mango that molders,
how sweet it is the moment just before
it is gone. I praise the shovel
for its valiant attempt
to make a clearing
even as snow continues
to fall. Praise the fire,
though it always goes out
when left untended.
Praise how easily I forget the lessons
I learned yesterday,
how this allows me to learn them again.
Praise the body that rises
and runs, though it knows
it will tire and ache. Praise
the innocent clock
which only does what it
was made to do. And praise
this longing to praise—
how it has never built
a single house nor fed a mouth
nor loaded a train,
but oh, the joy,
the aliveness in praising.