In spite of the sureness of this ground and what I can see and the breath in my mouth and the love of my child,
In spite of the sorrow that blankets the sick, the poor, the lonely; my god, the lonely:all of us,
In spite of the fantasy of knowing and of faith and cynicism and secrecy,
In spite of my intention for good and my realization of that good,
In spite of the sun rising today, like a golden apple today, so perfectly warm and reliable,
the ground inevitably shifts and my eyes dim, and my breath rattles along like the clatter of a forlorn train in the night and even my son, I will betray in some critical way.
The ground I thought I knew will fall away and away I will fall, taken over this last edge, the falls. This wasn’t here a minute ago. I know it. I don’t know, I know that.
My son’s birth brought to me the reality of life’s insistence. That baby is coming out, I thought as I looked at Rose’s swollen self. No matter what. Relentlessness is one of the corners of life’s personality. Life, once set in motion, comes and comes.
The slipping over the falls into dying is like the leaf laying still as a baby in the stream and then
swallowed by gravity. When I see it happen I always insert the yelp for the leaf, but it stays silent, serene, I guess, and then gone. Like that, Jean, like that, like you: peaceful, untangling the last attachments, and heading for adventure.