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While I live, let me pour as through a sieve
the mixed and muddied waters of my loves,
hold the gold and let the silt go. While I live,
let me tilt the pan to the light, lift
ore from the stream, strain to haul nets
with gleaming gifts from the deep,
keep the good, leave the rest.
Grief hoards the gold and weeps
the human question, Why not more,
more life? For we hold our lost loves,
restored, only when we sleep.
Arlene Weiner’s books include More (Ragged Sky, 2022). She lives in Pittsburgh.
Copyright 2022 Arlene Weiner