Morning Poem

These new days are forged by hands
with wounds enough
to make hesitant for the sake of language
chapped with grief
when we saw the worn out day
made to bend and warp while
distorted children played in
the pureness of that thing
we used to believe in doom
and taught ourselves to expect doom
and walked around thinking doom
now we try to greet every fresh day with hope
not braced for grief at day's end
that will come of its own accord
and we know that and we embrace that
not doubtful or contemptuous not hallowed
either by any preciousness bound to this thing
but firmly set and mostly new
ready for the result at its end.