Poem With the Last Line as the First

In the end, I made myself live.
I am the farthest north of my life,

and I know I’m supposed to love
this world though I could shut the door

and pull the drapes until they overlap
like two palms in prayer.

But the tree lichens are shifting
from green to red and I miss the summer’s scent

of lilacs and the bark pockets of trees
that fill with the nests of chickadees.

I understand the longing
for monastic life. All is slant

and when I read the Russian poets
I know I’m not the only one

who equates church bells with death tolls. Sometimes
the setting sun is too heavy for the mountains

to hold. How many times has your red-hot
prayer slipped from your hands?