Troubled by this cultural grab for legacy

that older people writing books and making speeches and

facing death

fixate upon,

the strange ego javelin

aimed towards making a lasting mark–

with their initials starkly upon it–

I pull my head out of my own ass and look

at a simple and wondrous case in point,

the early spring burst of a small crabapple tree:

With first new leaves gathering food of the sun,

and deep pink buds tucked between pale open blooms

offering food to the bees in pollination’s blessed exchange,

not a cell in that tree requires recognition

or hungers in desperation to be remembered

once it’s gone.

She is born, feeds, is fed, shelters, shades, and grows,

creates new life, diminishes, and becomes earth.

That is thanks enough,

perfection enough,

selfness enough.

Enough.

Like songs of sparrows sputtering in wing flutter

all about the garden,

this gift and given

of spirit to form back to spirit,

in this, how can we forget

no loop of the Divine

could ever

go wrong?