It is not said
that mourning shall be turned into non-mourning:
a cessation of suffering, a merciful blank
like the aftermath of a crisis passed.
Nor is there promised
the prolonged privileges of a convalescent
who earns—by the mere feat of survival—the
flowers, the fruit, the ministrations of others.
For behold
it is dancing—
dancing—we are called to!
O summoned we are
(from the darkest depths)
to that act of gladness that elated leap
even the new lamb, come to earth, straightway knows
how to perform: bounding up on stiff little legs
with no more reason for what it does than the very joy,
still fresh in it,
of being—unhistoried—what it is.
