Of This World
There’s a window open between each written word.
Words alone are my witnesses within this world.
The witnesses to our childhoods fall away, one by one.
Who is left to say we were here, walking this world?
My daughter calls out to the crows along our walk.
She needs no convincing to love this world.
Still, we study endlessly the passing of things.
We want only to say that it’s not the end of the world.
Once, long ago, I saw the lake-light pierce your skin.
I knew in that moment I was alive in this world.
Even in sleep, your words could astonish and beguile.
It was hard to limit yourself to just one world.
Words, like memory, are the least reliable of guides;
but we follow them into the silence of the world.
The names of many things continue to elude me.
One day I will forget my own, and that of this world.
by Greg Watson
Editor’s Note: The repetition in this ghazal presses the importance of small, singular moments into the reader’s mind, for they encompass the entire reason for our existence.