The Way
My offering only this,
an ancient echo vibrating from inside the Milky Way;
this too shall pass.
Mother earth will continue to spin on her axis around the sun,
casting shadows both undulating and blunt;
the face of the moon will continue to wax and wane overhead,
in absence of praise;
the stars will continue to silently blink,
their refractions birthing new creation stories.
…
Seeds, too, will continue pushing sprouts up from underneath,
like newborn heads crowning.
The hatchling will open its beak,
in need of its mother’s bile.
The infant, — or calf, — or fawn,
starts suckling at the teat within seconds upon arrival.
…
How is this even possible, you ask.
How do we navigate, with these inner fires and urgencies,
toward our sustenance —
a certain slant of light,
a mouthful of worms,
a stream of milk.
…
Directing my breath
to this fledgling flame inside the woodstove
might ignite an inferno that would
burn down my house,
consume everyone I love.
How is this even possible,
I ask.
My galaxy offers
only cold comforts,
our fontanelles
having closed shut after birth.
