Out of Wine

It’s been a long time since the last drink,
But we still know how small joys waste time,
Waste lives and minds of those who taste them,

How the dry and the stern (and the sad,
Who have seen loss) cast cold eyes on them.
Joys are like that. A joy has a cost,

And costs can add up, and so can loss.
We’ve known small joys and been found at fault
For all they’ve cost. But we have not lost

As much as has to be lost, as souls,
Those dry, sad, stern, cold night eyes of naught
And not-there and null, all have to lose.

There are days in this dry land that still
Feel flush and steal small joys. There’s no sign
We’ll come to the end of this long drought,

But some hours sing out, wren, lark, and thrush.
Spring grass grows spare. Ponds are half dried out.
But we can toast with a bone-dry cup—

So what? The hard months still lie up front.
We’ll dry up more, and then we’ll get gone.
But while small lives last, small joys still come.