All the near deaths life brings
and weeping’s mute drip,
seep down into ground water.
yet opposable. Dam its progress,
channel floods to nothingness.
All is impossible, we are not possible,
death more than probable, like snow—
falls weightless, filling small
cupped petals. Winter buries
too soon, all born too late. Breathe,
let’s breathe. Let go of spent trees and
dry pools of leaves. Another spring,
somewhere, still runs full stream.