Plenty: A Morning Poem at 75

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You do not have to do it again 
any of it. Only if you care to. 

You do not have to hold onto being anyone, anywhere.
Enough is more than plenty. 

Soft winds and harsh 
have ripened you, sent your breath echoing 

ecstasy and despair. You have only 
to let your fingers 

tell you what you love; 

            Tracing an idea across a page, 
            putting a ball in flight. 

            spanning the back of a new born, 
            touching a beloved cheek, 

            finding a fit,
            eschewing an alarm, 

            knowing when to let go 
            as the pages tear away. 

Ireland, young mothering, a first of much 
will not come again. 

Sun of morning visible or not, 

your intimate acquaintance with the Night 
says only this, this private arrival 

bears forever repeating 
until there is no repeating at all.