The way I feel sad
about the good,
the alive–
the wet-winged mayfly,
the just-walking child,
the snap of a stem
on a ripening peach–
the way memory
forgets all of this,
even this, beheld in
sunlight, in joy
even us, here–
flecked by
sunlight,
our fingers
interlaced.
–Karen Miller Rauch
Step closer. 