Before the first bird’s call, the house will wake

                        to a child’s treble; the bass—

thick-throated from a lack of sleep—will make

            the tune complete.  A face

you last saw many years ago may smile

                        as it did then, and beguile

 

you even more. At lunch, your lips may touch

                        the paper skin that lines

the cheekbones of an aging aunt, loved much

            but seldom called to mind;

or else the taste of some familiar dish may

                        make decades fall away.

 

Then, later in the sun-burned afternoon,

                        the smell of eucalypts

will overwhelm the indoor pine; and soon—

            the wound that bliss inflicts—

you too will feel the ache that Herbert sings:

                        to be worthy of these things.