For those that care to take inventory
of our inner stock,
that expanse of intangible stuff
which slowly moves the cogs
and tells the sleigh team where to go,
we must resign a little our calculations
to estimation, must accept a gut-guess,
for how do we measure strength of the heart?
In tears not shed, or less in number, less wet,
more secretly wept, less noticed, less kept-
do we measure in hurts not felt?
Or do we compare what we’re now able to bear
to our grief-dealing past and our struggles there
and take the difference between the two?
No, we cannot measure the winds of change,
though we feel that they are there;
our trust must be in a vague journey,
a destination we may never reach,
a harbor we won’t realize
’til we get there.