It matters what we call this life:
a passage of time from life to death
or a pilgrimage from death to life.

It matters for an eternity.

“For we are always dying —
I while I write,
you while you read.”¹


Ever on the wing
The past catches your sight
And in swift assailment
Draws blood



Walking with you, my love
In the springtime hiatus
Of the day, the sun gold
On your head, hope warms
A blushing glow on trees,
Blooms with Sabbath grace.


You and I have been on this marble blue
spinning, careening three-and-thirty courses
round a brilliant star, hitched to the Way,
circumnavigating life, teeter-tottering
in an improvised dance,
whirled apart and together,
taking on canons of fiery betrayals,
solar flares of pain enduring,
tidal floods of circumstance,
but still riding high,
bowling head-over-heels,
borne by the eternal Light,
and I’m still learning you,
leaning into you,
loving you.


Staggering in boot wise
Through a warm doorway
Enormous and puny with grace
I measure myself
By snowflakes, heavenly stars
On Christmas mittens
Now red with tears