The Tally Stick by Jarold Ramsey

Here from the start, from our first of days, look:

I have carved our lives in secret on this stick

of mountain mahogany the length of your arms

outstretched, the wood clear red, so hard and rare.

It is time to touch and handle what we know we share.

Near the butt, this intricate notch where the grains

converge and join: it is our wedding.

I can read it through with a thumb and tell you now

who danced, who made up the songs, who meant us joy.

These little arrowheads along the grain,

they are the births of our children. See,

they make a kind of design with these heavy crosses,

the deaths of our parents, the loss of friends.

Over it all, as it goes, of course, I

have chiseled Events, History--random

hashmarks cut against the swirling grain.

See, here is the Year the World Went Wrong,

we thought, and here the days the Great Men fell.

The lengthening runes of our lives run through it all.

See, our tally stick is whittled nearly end to end;

delicate as scrimshaw, it would not bear you up.

Regrets have polished it, hand over hand.

Yet, let us take it up, and as our fingers

like children leading on a trail cry back

our unforgotten wonders, sign after sign,

we will talk softly as of ordinary matters,

and in one another's blameless eyes go blind.