Reasons to Think Things Will Be OK

The sun has not tumbled from the sky

into Eggemoggin Reach, boiling the water

down to its salt, melting the granite islands

to black unrecognizable blobs, which they

would be already if it weren’t for those trees;

 

The leaves on those trees have not yet

tumbled from their branches. Well, they wouldn’t,

anyway, those trees being evergreens, right? Still,

if they did — and they would be needles then,

not leaves — it would be worse, because

those trees wouldn’t be dormant for winter,

they’d be dead.

 

I am not dead, and neither, I hope, are you,

mainly because when I was driving

behind you on the Deer Isle Bridge — you

were going intolerably slow, perhaps

because you were admiring the view

from a roadbed which aims at a near-vertical

into the sky, or because you were terrified

of heights and had your eyes closed,

gripping the wheel until your knuckles whitened —

I smiled grimly and did not rear-end you,

did not send us both tumbling toward miserable death.

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