In a Cycle
This morning in the swirl of
wisdom and order and chaos
I stumble through a contemplation
of the news and the surface of a small lake of coffee.
I gaze upon my wandering efforts
to grasp the situation of the universe.
I grieve the consistent admirations
for explosions that erase evil or
destroy goodness on a lovely day.
The life of the universe encompasses
explosions and it is because of
violence of immeasurable scope
I can sit beside a calm stream
that speaks the language of water
and composes the poetry of
reflections, colors and my planet's breath.
I am tired and astounded
by the simple complexity of existence.
As a life ages it becomes
an old toy chest filled with a jumble
of memories and forgottens.
I briefly acknowledge that
my interesting body will become soil.
We are here and that cannot be changed.
I passed through these locations in infinite space.
I am particles and my participation can be
directed but cannot be purged.
I will leave behind bones perhaps, and stories,
possibly a spray of radiation.
The cycles are reliable.
There is probably nothing more
dependable than a cycle.
Creator, question, response.
Evolution, puzzle, resolution.
Now I am outside on the covered deck
under a steady summer rain.
Drops fall like straight lines against
a curtain of grateful leaves.
Hear their rhythm on the cloth canopy.
A soft mist filters through the cloth
and tiny droplets as cold as snowflakes
are kissing my shoulders and back.
I am a witness in the home of the holy family.
I hear Mother Sky say to Baby Earth
"It's time for your bath."
John C. Manimas, June 2021
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