The poem
Gone are the days when you could walk on water. When you could walk.
The days are gone. Only one day remains, the one you're in.
The memory is no friend. It can only tell you what you no longer have:
a left hand you can use, two feet that walk. All the brain's gadgets.
Hello, hello. The one hand that still works grips, won't let go.
That is not a train. There is no cricket. Let's not panic.
Let's talk about axes, which kinds are good, the many names of wood.
This is how to build a house, a boat, a tent. No use; the toolbox
refuses to reveal its verbs; the rasp, the plane, the awl, revert to sullen metal.
Do you recognize anything? I said. Anything familiar? Yes, you said. The bed.
Better to watch the stream that flows across the floor and is made of sunlight,
the forest made of shadows; better to watch the fireplace which is now a beach.
discovered this today! another of Atwood's masterly prose-poems. There're the same verbal economy, a similar dramatic tension as are the markers of the best of her poetry, like "This is a photograph of me" , " A Visit" and other exquisite pieces. Would like to analyze it further ... but some time later... am too tired now. bye.