I couldn’t tell one song from another, which bird said what or to whom or for
    what reason.
The oak tree seemed to be writing something using very few words.

I couldn’t decide which door to open—they looked the same, or what would
   happen when
I did reach out and turn a knob. I thought I was safe, standing there, but my
   death remembered

its date: only so many summer nights still stood before me, full moon, waning
October mornings: what to make of them? which door?

I couldn’t tell which stars were which or how far away any one of them was, or
were still burning or not—their light moving through space like a long late

and I’ve lived on this earth so long, 50 winters, 50 springs and summers,
and all this time stars have stood in the sky—in daylight when I couldn’t see
   them, and

at night, when most nights I didn’t look.