There will be sorrow enough --

not on those nights
when the wind probes through your window,
urgent with memory,
or when the soft rain
curtains your thoughts inward

but on the others:
when you put down the book,
stretch, make coffee, and
stop,
stand with the cup in your hand
puzzled,
look around the room or out the window
for a moment, not seeing
your mirrored face;
then turn back to the chair
without thoughts, somehow restless,
staring at your strange hand
around the cup.

Sip the coffee, pick the book up again,
the moment gone, already forgotten.
There will be sorrow
enough on ordinary nights. 

                                                    22 Jan 63