All Things Being Equal

Taking the first breath
with outrageous delight.
Organizing 700,000 protesters
to march for justice.
Knitting a wool blanket
for a baby.
Building a sustainable
earth-friendly outhouse.
Painting plum blossoms in April.
The final exhalation
gratefully offered.
All things being equal,
all sacraments, and all
mirages in the still blue sky
of attention,
I've given up searching
for vast significance.
I look for the great
in the small.
On my fingertip
the dissolving beauty
of innumerable suns
in a snowflake.
The galaxy we're lost in
on a snail's back.
In a moth wing, the silver-blue
pin-wheel nebula.
A horoscope of frost
at my window
telling ancient stories,
foreshadowing the shape
of eternity.
And at the moment of my death,
a ladybug.
I am lying in the grass
on a summer afternoon.
My heart, which has been
breaking for decades,
finally pries itself open.
Ladybug lands on a weed,
bending it down for a bridge.
I gaze into unfathomable green
as she gathers my last breath
into her crimson stole,
starred with imperial
black opals,
and carries me gently across,
not into another world but
deeper into this one.


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