Every night I die.
Every day I am reborn.
This wasn’t my plan—
but I stopped being able to shrink
from its truth.
Why is it that the trees
that surround me do not take in my fear?
They have no use for it—bending to the will of the wind.
Their roots know that fear is the opposite of shelter.
The trees are not self-hating,
and have no magazines
telling them how to seem
or catalogues telling them what to want.
The self that dies dissolves
into the dreamless sleep
darkness its master.
I have learned to surrender.
it’s not my doing or undoing—
The passage of the planets,
and their posses of playthings.
What is up to me is
already quite enough—
all five senses
keeping track of their inward knowledge,
And the sixth?
the free agent organ.
The brain has no business there.
And the heart —is it my doing or undoing?
Or is it simply my friend—when I remember.
in the morning,
when I am reborn,
and have just had my first sip of dew
and am stretching my fresh, fine pair
These wings may get clipped today—
The air has not yet determined it.
Or they may
lead me to flight—
but only by keeping my wandering eye
on my heart.