The small happenings, the thousand nothings, a
letter, a date, a humble anniversary, a word said
once again as in days long ago uplift your heart
and mine in these long evenings.
And we celebrate for ourselves these simple
things, and we count and recount our old
treasures, so that the little of us that we still
keep may remain steadfast and brave before the
sullen hour.
And more than is fitting, we show ourselves
solicitous of these poor, gentle, kindly joys
that sit down on the bench near the flaming fire
with winter flowers on their thin knees.
And they take from the chest where their goodness
hides it the bright bread of happiness that was
allotted to us, and of which Love in our house
has so long eaten that he loves it even to the
crumbs.