Excerpt from The Owner
of the House: New Collected Poems 1940-2001
After a Light Snowfall
On a day when snow has fallen
lightly, sprinkling the ground,
and a flock of small birds
are hopping and flying about,
a poem returns to haunt me.
"As you have wasted your life here in this place
You have wasted it in every part of the world."
I am disturbed by the words
of a man I never knew, who lived
in a country I have never visited.
How is it he knows about me,
and that I have not lived
for the good of others, putting their needs
before my own? That I have not been
a perfect husband and father.
That I have not written a book
that graces every other coffee table,
or made a discovery or invention
that will save lives and relieve human suffering?
How can he say I have wasted my life?
What can he possibly know about me?
And yet I see that he does.