"You don't know how lucky you have it,” I say as I brake for the bird who is hopping uncertainly in the middle of the intersection, torn between flight and flirting with death one second longer.
Today it will live.
I press my foot down on the gas pedal.
One day our sun will stop burning- our universe will freeze, contract, and be reborn; empires will fall and rise, but will never see you skin your knees or fight with your mother; the wind will never carry away the chalk dust from your grinning face.
Life persists but bears its scars; and I see them in the way we wish on the light of stars that have been dead for thousands of years; and I feel them in the way that fingers trace the stretch marks that have not yet faded from your mothers stomach.
A still small lump lies in the middle of the barren road, and I swerve to avoid it
even though the squirrels guts have already been painted across the gravel
and the baby’s ashes have already been returned to the cold earth.
The world doesn't stop turning for either; but I weep for both.
Another poem that I revised and added on from an earlier piece.