Lifting my wounded strategies
bearing my own oblivion
I am no more than
the water skipper’s race across the surface, the caterpillar’s dangle from silk.
The world calls me—out of me
heart skitters, fear of mis-step
above, beyond, what is below
each precious, unique expression
held by the same silver thread.
And then something falls and does not get back up again.
As it is—and it is—life lost without apology; we cannot know.
Hold, catch, carry each other.
There is only today—
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