Everything That Acts Is Actual

From the tawny light
from the rainy nights
from the imagination finding
itself and more than itself
alone and more than alone
at the bottom of the well where the moon lives,
can you pull me

into December? a lowland
of space, perception of space
towering of shadows of clouds blown upon
clouds over
          new ground, new made
under heavy December footsteps? the only
way to live?

The flawed moon
acts on the truth, and makes
an autumn of tentative
silences.
You lived, but somewhere else,
your presence touched others, ring upon ring,
and changed. Did you think
I would not change?

          The black moon
turns away, its work done. A tenderness,
unspoken autumn.
We are faithful
only to the imagination. What the
imagination
          seizes
as beauty must be truth. What holds you
to what you see of me is
that grasp alone.

by Denise Levertov

Comments (30)

Thanks to ted looser for making the poem thank you so much
It is a nice poem but not about birthdadays thanks
I don’t like the poem at all, it’s nothin to do with birthdays. Never coming back here again
this poem is really very bad
Um this is NOT a birthday poem whatsoever😡😡😡😡
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