Still Sing

At this final place,
the leaves late and wan,
our days turned to winter,
we know the brutal answers
to those questions:
the given reason, the point of it
all unsatisfactory,
and see the bothered eyes
and the clenched teeth
behind the quick smiles
of those we disturb,
and know that no one
beyond the woman
in which we grew
will ever again love us
quite the way we want,
and that we are always other,
always the intruder,
barely wanted, barely able
to explain or understand
who we are,
and that we go the whole thing
absolutely alone
making whatever imagined purpose,
relevance or providence we choose
out of the course of our time,
one thing mattering
no more really
than any other thing
we might have chosen,
and yet, and yet,
even so, amazing, (amazing!)
we go on and play it out,
walk the day as it spins,
take in the breeze,
tan our skin in the sun,
or sometimes
face the freezing rain
but still laugh, still sing,
live it out fully
amazing, amazing
this brief turn of the clock,
this proud march,
this brave little life of ours.