be still, my heart:
quiet now as the creek is
running over rocks
roughshod, eroding
that cacophony of
a world gone mad with
choices soiled –

and mine,
that beating old
bag of muscle
stuck in its cavity
and aching arteries
flowing like the creek,
cries out for my own sins,
for ours,
for the seeming loss
of letting go of
what the autumn leaves
know without even thinking about it,
and I think I hate them a little,
falling there into the black bedrock,
or maybe it’s mere envy
that they know how to die
with such good grace,
giving way to tomorrow:

be still and know that I,
I am something more than
this rotting old rood
and all that’s promised
of it,
be still and know that
we’ll wash downstream
what we must,
all of us,
together with the salt and silt
that runs from the high hill
to the Dead Sea,
that same ground
from the dust and clay
we came.

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