This blood is not of one body. It flows and meets our children in years they were expecting life
to grow like Spring.
I tunnel visions of something different,
something more expected, something developed in sense and purpose, for if not,
my sequel opens, dances impulse
and ignores the subtle cravings of what can be real
leave us vulnerable to the humble epiphany of the saint.
I struggle now with a sense of loss,
the inability to plan what tomorrow will be, even though its ownership was never mine.
If I forsake control, can I gain the world fresh and the valleys renewed,
expect growth for our unborn children, the potential to develop worlds of humanity
outside of this narrow chaos. I pray again and again for a map to somewhere.
Moist ideas. Freedom from want.
I don’t know if we have fallen into the end.
For today (and not tomorrow) I will watch as if this moment is all there is.