Second Wind

Each time any of us comes back
from the brink, what kind of triumph
is it? Is it the soul or the muscles
trained a lifetime to hold things in,
to burble and breathe under water?
And those of us who have pulled
someone back, or stood in a hallway
after the chaos has settled, how
did we find the strength to return 
again and again to this work? 
What made it possible to steady 
our voices, our hands, to open 
the purse-strings a little wider, 
a little closer to the bottom? 
We're taught love is generous. 
Or it gives without making a tally, 
doing up sums. But love is also 
the crumpled bag under the sink, 
every shred of Kleenex in the bin, 
bottles of Acetaminophen+
Caffeine, endless hours before dawn 
wondering what helped and what didn't. 
Sometimes this is called patience. 
Other times, watchfulness and waiting. 
Maybe it's the soul, unfurling damp 
wings over everything it can reach, 
or the body stretching before what 
it believes could be the last long 
stretch it can run without stopping.