Being born and dying
is a matter of upheaval.
Events within events
moving as if shod in fur,
stealing stillness from us
as if we were spun gold
in thickets, destined for
other lives where we’d be
yellow birds, cardinals,
trees where birds nest,
or infants asleep in baskets
cast off on running streams,
awaiting golden adoption.
The prospect of permanence
roils blood to turbulence,
spills out of thimbles,
and stirs the mind with hope
that another life will seize us,
make us its eternal own
world-without-end-Amen.
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