To Myself After They Brought Me Back to Life

It happens now
your breath is still your own breath,
your sorrow works its secret
little work in you,
your heart is still a stumbling
fawn, in autumn.

I tell you it is not too late
to waken.
Someone has asked for you, in wonder.
Someone must have asked this heart
to last.

Waken. Stand again
and waken.

Are you not a home
to someone? Are you not
their gift, their madness?
Are you not the astonishing
answer
to the great unsayable
question
in someone’s, someone’s hands?