Everything

I live in what I give away:

in photos, flowers, polished stones,

a book or ring, a porcelain trinket,

a figurine of which I say,

much more to me for you to have it.

But also in the time I give,

to listen, try to understand

everything time takes:  the flower,

the photo of a relative,

the polish on the stone, a friend,

a pledge and ring that slips the finger.

And finally even how I live,

till I’m afraid to give away

what, for tomorrow, I should keep:

some memory of those who leave,

some token that recalls the way

to stop this dying in my sleep.

Michael T. Young

From Transcriptions of Daylight, Rattapallax
Press, © 2000; originally printed in The Lyric.
Reprinted by permission of the author.