It’s amazing that we survive death.
So much of life should kill us –
heartache, grief, vulnerability, fatigue;
even birth should destroy us with pain
yet it doesn’t, and here we are.
Our hearts break, but no matter: we wake
every morning. Loss takes our breath away;
even so, our lungs inflate, deflate, inflate.
Storms knock us flat, tsunamis wash away
all that we’ve known, and yet: here we are.
It’s amazing that any of us survive
the daily death of disappointment, of dread,
of betrayal every time the world sells you out
for the cheap price of fear. But still:
you’ve loved today, haven’t you? So have I.
And if we know love – within ourselves and
throughout this fragile life; if by some miracle
we even hold the same love for more than a day;
are we not thriving richly against life’s odds?
Is not love a conjugation of life?
Love is the past progressive tense of death.
It is a testimony to life in the present perfect
and the assurance of the simple future.
And when we no longer survive death, as is certain,
the memory of love will remain life’s miracle.