On Good
Friday afternoon I crocheted a shawl
During
the dying, and listened
To the
rasping breaths
Of a
labor duplicated around the world
Everywhere.
But here
At the
epicenter of all being
Echoed
every death from time’s beginning
To the
end, the expansion
And
contraction of these lungs,
Alpha and
Omega of the pulsing
Universe.
I twisted
the yarn around the hook
And
pulled the long strand through the loop
Hoping
through all of this, at least
To end up
with a shawl
That
might provide some bit
Of
comfort in the chill
Of that
death which would
(Who
could doubt it now?)
Come.
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