31 December 1985

For R.L.C.

Even a sane man staggers to points where

The smallest grain may suddenly blast out

Promise or threat-the wrong birdcall,

The rate of sunlight prowling a face,

The day's first word. Today, butt-end

Of an endless year, you tumble me

From chair to car in chill sunlight

And then yell "Whoa!" I crouch in the plush,

Expecting blood-cut forehead, cut foot

(The practical hemophilia of the numb).

You've found, at your own safe feet in leaves,

My grandmother's wide gold wedding-band,

Century-old companion of her life

From marriage at sixteen to death at forty-eight

(Eight children, a flagging fame for laughter)-

Lost from my left hand days ago,

Despaired of till now. I seize it, cold,

And warm it fast on a stout right finger

Blasted by luck-a year redeemed,

Her fame renewed, her gift of time.