absence of sound. Rather the sound
belongs. Wind rustling leaves, a
woodpecker’s thrumming, chorus
of tree frogs or crickets, bird song.
Nothing out of place.
I breathe.
My feet crunch leaves lightly.
I try to belong, let myself be wild.
Being saved from death is
not the same as saving
a life. What good is it
to survive, if you don’t
live?
I don’t mean, of course,
having
a pulse, breath, the daily
maintenance of eating,
sleeping.
I mean feeling wind on your skin,
savoring chocolate, a
glass of wine,
the wonder of seeing a
sunrise
or a dear friend’s face.
I mean, of course, the way
your heart beats wildly
with joy when something
thrills
you, or beats with fear
when you risk yourself or
feel pain. You see, living
is not
playing safe, staying
behind fences
or locked doors. That may
let you
survive, but already you’re
dead.
Life wants to be lived,
out loud,
no holds barred,
all in.
Then
when death does come, it comes--
an exclamation point at
the end
of life’s story, a cause
for
celebration.
