To Be

It is interesting to be human,
to shit and to piss,
then die of cancer,
or leap, alone, from a bridge,
or to enfold each other in flesh,
to apprehend a whisper,
to stagger under
the unbearable weight of love;
to invent
a song for beauty,
to sounds of weeping –
or just to feel your life,
while the hunger of loss
feeds you.
Find your voice again
in the child or the lover,
who come to you
to give it back;
there’s some mystery to it,
our lives that grasp
abiding Spring, and
which our bodies,
as always,
choose to kiss,
then betray.

– ph 17/12/16 (Ancaster, ON)