The point

There is a grief with no name
and a morning that keeps arriving.

Somewhere in the bare oak,
a bird opens its throat
into nothing,
not because it will be heard
but because it is
song.

Then: you.

The stumbled word,
the missed moment,
the silence that almost ended it.

The staying anyway.

The warmth
of being chosen
by someone
who could leave
but doesn't.

The improbable,
beautiful
staying.

And last,
most resisted,
longest,
the one
still breathing,
who survives
his own winters,
who surfaces again
into the ordinary morning
and tries.