The honest power of a winter-shocked sun is doing its best
but it still looks like the scarce light is coming from the blue.
The sky among the clouds is like chipped paint—
nothing is falling, though.
Face your fears, they said. I remember
trying to forget all about that but here I am,
peering over a stinging-cold rail into calm, ample water
from way up. Not too high to obscure the reflection.
I am facing my face facing my fear of death as night’s black
ambulance rushes the day off. That’s fine.
That light was painted on anyway. Now, just the false-moon
shine of the streetlamps and houseboats’ porch lights.
Can our bodies sustain this earth? The practice
of statistics reminds us that we can know nothing for certain.
An enormous fly wanders into view like a lazy eye.
We need people who cannot bear the thought of a world
without the world. So face your fears.
Everything I know. Everything I know is nothing for sure.
My face is still and deep and maybe full of fish.
It is holding all that water down, away.
I stare at me until I look away: the first tint of morning,
glowing like the afterlife. I take the stairs to get down.
A flock of geese is eating grass
and it sounds like rain.
Alejandra Molina - Religion News Service
The Associated Press
John W. Miller
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