Death

I wonder if time can unfold without creases. For hellos to bleed into goodbyes, the smell of fourth of July into falling leaves, and Saturday morning brunches with our loved ones into words of gratitude on paper. I don't want to get stuck in a crevice, like sleeping in an old sleeping bag that could not release modernity's grip on me. I want to surrender to the sounds of crackling fire, a night without borders, a story without end. I want to know the joy of chipmunks always scurrying along the perimeters of abundance. And what keeps the sobremesa so fertile, for family and friends to linger into jet-setting conversations and new best friends. If I know this, then I must know death. For death does not stop. Death does not accrue. It grants us becoming. It's the gentle plié that makes each move of the performance, absolutely beautiful.