I return to writing these poems
not knowing what words mean;
written in journals decades old
or unveiling themselves new
on even brighter screens.
I do know that I disagree
with the notion that birth
is an exile from some
culminating experience
meant to last into the infinite.
Is G*d any less of a G*d
after the death of anyone?
Or, do the dance steps of the G*ds
become more frenzied as a birth nears?
I pause in my walk and count
those tender sounds tapping out
the letters to the word
c-a-u-t-i-o-n.
A Thread You Follow 