These are indeed the lives we’ve been given,
all these thousands of bright shining mornings
& dark starless nights, all these damned beloved children
lost & found & found & lost,
all these tears.

We can say as loudly as we like, If only I’d been there
or If only I hadn’t or If only I weren’t so mean or thoughtless
or weak—but indeed there’s no changing the past
no matter what color glasses
we look at it through.

Indeed there’s not much use in looking back or forward
even though we do just that, morning & night,
even though there’s no confusion whatsoever
about where we’re headed, only how we’ll get there
& when.

Until then, the world is indeed harsh & cold
except for what we bring to it in our little rooms,
the brimming mugs of coffee we share & warm our hands with,
the cream & the sugar, the only barely burnt
crusts of bread.