This morning, a chipmunk beneath the kitchen sink
Months before, a mouse at the back door rug
A year ago, his body found on the floor
And before that? I know not; being born and dying happened at home,
So commonplace the endings and beginnings of this vapor life.
Why so much toil and tumult?
When the house has quietly stood for 85 years, unweighted by the suffering plaguing the children of men
Can I release it to the one who holds it all together,
Holding faith that in the crashing markets and blockaded lands,
He'll never let go.
Even the chipmunks days were marked and spent well in their own glory.
Couldn't I try to do the same?
Greeting death as the doorway, not the enemy
To the true rest our sick bodies and stretched minds long for?
You know not when he will come;
Welcome.
