Wednesday Poem

Full of Days

Job died when he was “full of days”,
a wonderful expression. I too would like to arrive
at the point of feeling “full of days,”
and to close with a smile the brief circle
that is our life. I can still take pleasure in it, yes;
still enjoy the moon reflected on the sea,
the kisses of the woman I love, her presence
that gives meaning to everything; still savor
those Sunday afternoons at home in winter,
lying on the sofa filling pages with symbols
and formulae, dreaming of capturing another
small secret from among the thousands that still
surround us . . . I like to look forward to still tasting
from this golden chalice, to life that is teeming,
both tender and hostile, clear and inscrutable,
unexpected . . . But I have already drunk deep
of the bittersweet draft of this chalice, and if an
angel were to come for me right now, saying,
“Carlo, it’s time,” I would not ask to be left
even long enough to finish this sentence.
I would just smile up at him and follow.

by Carlo Rovelli
from The Order of Time
Riverhead Books, 2018

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