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.