The Still Time
— By Galway Kinnell
I know there is still time —
time for the hands
to be filled
by those failed harvests,
the imagined read of the days of not having.
I remember those summer nights
when I was young and empty,
when I lay through the darkness
I would have nothing of anything I wanted —
that total craving
that can hollow a heart out irreversibly.
So it surprises me now to hear
the steps of my life following me —
so much of it gone
it returns, everything that drove me crazy
comes back, as if to modify the misery
of each step it took me into the world;
as though a prayer had ended
and the changed
air between the palms went free
to become that inexplicable
glittering we see on ordinary things.
And the voices,
which once made broken-off, parrot-incoherences,
speak again, this time
speaking on the palatum cordis,
saying there is time, still time
for those who can groan to sing,
for those who can sing to be healed.