I do not know whose eyes perceive
my finite movement toward light.
Each letting go, a small cry,
each forward move my life's
migratory assurance of what
none of us can ever know.
The genetic certainty of cells
propels the forebrain
with its stumbling feet,
while a heartache of hope
wins each moment even
as it is lost to the next.
And we must accept
the impermanent flow
that is like air, necessary
and sacred; tears are not
the only salt of sorrow.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 7:28 PM UTC
I do not know whose eyes perceive
my finite movement toward light.
Each letting go, a small cry,
each forward move my life's
migratory assurance of what
none of us can ever know.
The genetic certainty of cells
propels the forebrain
with its stumbling feet,
while a heartache of hope
wins each moment even
as it is lost to the next.
And we must accept
the impermanent flow
that is like air, necessary
and sacred; tears are not
the only salt of sorrow.
