Who am I to set this scene—
an old psalm slipping from my throat
to pass along,
to float like leaves
from a stolid, ancient oak—?
Bathe, Bethesda, in the font
of our foremost human need—
to be heard, and
to be seen,
we're jet-black beacons in the dark.
Pose a query, on the tongue—
does the soul continue on,
to the source, or
to the sun,
and will we notice when it’s gone?
This chrysalis has come undone—
I am a moth, I endeavor
to seek the light,
to multiply,
and above all else,
to hope for more.