Some days, I don’t even think of it,
the planes, the towers,
the fine dust encircling this one world.

A pelican flies over rough waters,
snow falls over arctic tundra, somewhere
a tree is milled, then paper in my hands.

I linger in this web and gather groceries,
a package from the post office,
then rush through the rain.

Too often I forget how to love this life,

the scarlet veins of maple leaves,
steam rising from a warm cup of tea,
the amber glow of the sky at the end of the day,

a humpback whale traveling ten thousand miles—
all as much a part of this world
as the ashen coating from shattered buildings

covering shoes worn that day,
shoes that are kept in a box,
now shelved in our closet.

And I will likely forget a thousand times more
how to suck out all the marrow of this life,
but I’ll never forget the people who came

to search through the rubble,
as if we were made of something unsevered—
like the ocean or light from the sun.