Rainy day out, birdsong morning, new green
on green on green on green of spring, blue-gray
sky, blue-brown baby birds, and cloudy haze.
Emerging light and first flight chicks, routines
of life and cycles, seeds which die, we've seen
this road before, we walk the day to day,
we live to die; our steps point to the way,
and rarely do we know just what that means.
We're born to lives we don't deserve; our death
is life, our life is death, the voice that calls
us back still calls to us. The paradox
of blue moon sky and deeply breathing breath,
when life and death hold hostage in your walls,
escapes your sight within Pandora's Box.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019
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