It happens, sometimes,
the waiter notices
that your glass
is half empty
and so he walks over
with the bottle of champagne
and fills it again, and then
when it’s half empty
he fills it again,
and again,
and a whole morning
can pass just like this
sitting in the window
on a generous sofa
across from a friend—
outside the snow falls
on the newly green leaves
and inside,
though we plumb
the layers
of fear and loss,
it’s increasingly
hard to believe
in a glass ever being
half empty.