I shall not search the ground of my life
for such things
as blood and the thin lingering cry of
what falls down.
Have we not all tripped and felt the soil,
welcome us home as it dismisses the air?
You will not find Him there—
His uplift and dusty life rushed
in rare gratitude
to the helping hand,
the shouldered cross, the eyes in the crowd
that wept rain and sunshine in equal measure.
Memories of tumbling, rolling, sand in my nose,
On my tongue--
such things take wing on those measured steps
and comforted descents.
Fledgling that I am,
still befriending both nest
and rising again.