June 2, 2010
On the dog's ear, a scrap of filmy stuff
turns out to be
a walking stick...not an inch long...
I could not imagine it could live
in the brisk world,, or where it would live, or how. But
I took it
outside and held it up to the red oak that rises
ninety feet into the air, and it lifted its forward-most
pair of arms
with what in anything worth thinking about would have seemed
a graceful and glad gesture: it caught
on to the bark, it hung on; it rested,; it began to climb.
When I look at fragile beings, a newly hatched chick emerging from an egg or a tadpole in a summer' pond, I marvel that they survive at all, let alone into maturity that brings their genes and experiences forward. I wonder now if it is any less miracle that I am here, that you are here, that our species has managed to hang on so long. My guess is that it won't always be so. There will come a time when we exist no more. Though small with no assurance of our contunuity, in fact with assurance that this moment and sunrise will pass from this world, I raise my hands to the east, and vow, let me continue forward to climb from my restricted heart, in gratitude.
Have you ever been up in a tree? What does the world look like from so far above? Small? Great? Infinite?