Every Day

Every Day

by Denise Levertov, from Breathing the Water, 1984

Three men spoke to me today.

One, bereaved, told me his grief, saying

Had God abandoned him, or was there

no God to abandon him?

One, condemned, told me his epitaph,

'Groomed to die.' On Death Row he remembers

the underside of his gradeschool desk, air-raid drill.

He never expected to live

even this long.

He sticks his head back down between his knees,

'not even sad.'

One, a young father, told me

how he had needed his child, even

before she was conceived.

How he had planted a garden too big to hoe.

He told me about the small leaves near his window,

how he had seen in them their desire to be,

to be the world.

With this one I sat laughing,

eating, drinking wine. 'The same word,'

he said, 'she has the same word for me and the dog!

She loves us!'

Every day, every day I hear

enough to fill

a year of nights with wondering.