when the sound of my family’s sweet sleeping
fills my heart,
to make peace with
the senseless violence,
the greed, and random tragedy of the world.
These specters haunt my warm bed
and torment my sleepy thoughts into a frenzy.
I cannot protect those most dear to me.
I cannot rest.
With the rising sun, I remember. It is
far better to tackle the world’s unrest
with the rhythm of swinging hips,
the movement of muscle,
the pounding of feet on leaf mould, sand, grass,
lightly now, go over this hill, and down the other side.
My fingers, cracking a bulb of garlic,
handling soil, hay, children, sharing life with life.
The living world restores my senses.
Birth, growth, decline, and decay entwine
under my shoes, around my fingers, above my head.
The movement of life is evident
in the falling leaves, the mist on my face,
the bird flight and squirrel chatter,
(In the dark, on the pavement, on the highway,
I lose my place.
Flailing, I cling to what I love.
Mortality and loss are immanent threats.)
Our only protection, the best security,
is that life loves itself.
Pushing the seed into the soil,
I find my place within the continuum.