in spring, in life, arugula, beets, children. Always life, always growing, inexorable life we want to nurture and cherish, hold its tendrils and lips and small breath still. Pollinators, flying to flowers, carrying, dripping, trails of pollen. Always we think about life, the heave and sway of life beginning, growing, words I hear when we talk about the holy the sacred the unknown, the certainty that beyond this skin another life breathes. Yet yet yet we resist the pull of life, the full sun meadow humming with birds and breezes, swirling smells and heat thick against each sense, every touch another assurance that this life is no other. My science my God my doubt and my faith fall beside the bee-rich prairie on a morning in June. To lie forgotten.
If we ask this question staring into the infinity of night stretched across the sky when the air smells sweet we know mercy, and plum blossoms, coax this last urge past our last questions, as still air holds each cupped hand, soft cheek, lips next to mouths and words and your love keeps pulling me into the clarity of utter connected sacred indivisible whole life, this life which is mine is yours, the agreed upon edges have no meaning in the dark, and we puff small breaths against new tender life, call it miracle, life, holy God. And we dance, glorious,