I have known the
richest scent of life.
With beautiful eyes,
I have seen
every last beautiful thing.
Is there no part of my body
that does not sing
I am sated,
the way the cicada does
just before she dies?
The miracle of speech,
sitting amidst these young voices,
hearts beating on their tongues,
and the need to say anything,
the flower’s need to bloom,
the body’s need to resist the open sky.
In this foreign language they falter,
and I think of antelopes tottering
in muddy reeds,
lions in wait beyond us all.
I think of the first words we ever said,
when our world formed like a
those first, dangerous hatchling stutters,
the first time we stood on two rootless feet,
the first time we danced with the flow of others,
the first time we dug in
against the blue and baying tide.
Did we know then what they planned for us,
these declarations of independence,
the words of these young ones here,
painfully forming the contours of the heart,
these songs that lead us to the listening edge,
and demand we give form to our vaulting lives.