“This morning there’s snow everywhere. We remark on it.
You tell me you didn’t sleep well. I say
I didn’t either. You had a terrible night. “Me too.”
We’re extraordinarily calm and tender with each other
as if sensing the other’s rickety state of mind.
As if we knew what the other was feeling. We don’t,
of course. We never do. No matter.
It’s the tenderness I care about. That’s the gift
this morning that moves and holds me.
Same as every morning.”
—Raymond Carver, last strophe to “The Gift,” from Ultramarine (Random House, 1986). With thanks to apoetreflects.
If you don’t know the kind of person I am | and you don’t know the kind of person you are | a pattern that others made may prevail in the world | and following the wrong god home we may miss our | star.