This life comes with death.
No level of consciousness removes this swinging pendulum.
The root of us and things is centered in the axis on which the pendulum swings; the divine within splashing its grace against the rhythms of our heart, tasting the breath and assimilating it into a smile.
Answers are there, not in the outer perimeters whirling in a current of fear and blame.
Is the worst the worst; are the fish and falling birds a sign of needed change?
Perhaps, but a pointing finger is a plucking hand.
What can rise from faults flame? A toxic smoke that makes misty the eyes.
On this outward pointing skewer we char our fish and finches with smiles that we are better than our neighbor who stacks newspapers near his nightstand; the others, them, all choppy and shaky with our fragile things (a thickening fog dressing the curbside prophets with megaphones and Facebook posts, quick to shovel wrong out, late in placing a seed).