We were born

We were born too late for the star-thick night,
for the river of heaven, cold and bright,
for the wolf on the ridge and the owl in flight,
for the whole black bowl of the world alight.

Too late for the fields where the fireflies burned,
too late for the roads where the wagon wheels turned,
too late for the names of the birds we learned,
too late for the seasons the old trees earned.

Too late for the streams you could drink by hand,
too late for the deer in the open land,
too late for the moon on the unmarked sand,
too late for the hush before motors ran.

Too late for the forests before the blade,
for the miles of shade that the old oaks made,
for the moss-deep hush of the hidden glade,
for the green world breathing, unbought, unswayed.

Too late for the cities that ended at night,
too late for the candle, the hearth, the rite,
too late for a darkness deep and right,
too late for the stars to be our light.

Too late for the salmon to silver the stream,
too late for the whale in the clean blue dream,
too late for the dawn with its milk-white gleam,
too late for the earth before the machine.

Too late for the hoofbeat, the hand, the plow,
too late for the sweat on the laborer’s brow,
too late for the question of when, not how,
too late for the world that was slower than now.

Too late for the thunder to rule the plain,
too late for the roof-song of honest rain,
too late for the snow without ash or stain,
too late for the wind with no wire to strain.

Too late for the meadow no fence had crossed,
too late for the path no map embossed,
too late for the things we never lost
until we learned to count their cost.

Too late for the bread that the weather made,
too late for the milk in the morning shade,
too late for the fruit in the orchard laid,
too late for the hands that prayed and stayed.

Too late for the night with its thousand eyes,
too late for the blue of untouched skies,
too late for the birds in their crowded rise,
too late for the truth before enterprise.

Too late for the quiet, the dark, the deep,
too late for the earth in its ancient sleep,
too late for the promises we could not keep,
too late for the stars we forgot to reap.

We were born too late for the star-thick night,
for the river of heaven, cold and bright,
but not too late to name what’s gone from sight,
and not too late to guard what’s left of light.

One thing is clear, we were not born too late to die.