In his tent, Achilles grieved with his whole being and the gods saw he was a man already dead, a victim of the part that loved, the part that was mor… - Louise Glück

End of Winter”

Over the still world, a bird calls
waking solitary among black boughs.

You wanted to be born; I let you be born.
When has my grief ever gotten
in the way of your pleasure?

Plunging ahead
into the dark and light at the same time
eager for sensation

as though you were some new thing, wanting
to express yourselves

all brilliance, all vivacity
never thinking
this would cost you anything,
never imagining the sound of my voice
as anything but part of you — you won’t hear it in the other world,
not clearly again,
not in birdcall or human cry,

not the clear sound, only
persistent echoing
in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye — the one continuous line
that binds us to each other.

this is the light of autumn; it has turned
on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the
end
still believing in something.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface. It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.