Infirm Firmament

We are but a breath
Gone as quickly as our names are spoken
expired as – soon – as our own is gone
utterances in the night that are soon broken

We are but a mist
Though thick in the night
is chased away at the dawning of the heat
Gone forever from our own sight

darkness

Millions upon myriads of mists before
countless cajillions to follow
Just the same, unchanging, yet passing all semblance of the firm
yes.

An infirm
An infirmity

yet

A sickness that kills to life.
Mortality is not a close, but an opening to the true and beautiful and real
The firmament is clouds and nitrogen and oxygen and that which we cannot grasp
Yet it’s firmness is taken to lungs and moves the trees and moves the people

That which is ephemeral is eternal

That which is eternal is seen in part

But we see the part and take for the whole
Selling our souls for the tripe soup
Giving our firmament for the frail
This is not all there is
Our temporality beckons us to not waste the breath
It reminds us that breathing is what we are

Plant your feet on the ground and know that flesh will give way to new flesh
Rock and vale and cloud and mountain will not tumble
They will grow
They will stay
As we pass away under the mists of life
As our memory slips from our partners in life
Our children’s children will faintly remember as a water color faded on the parchment

Don’t spend your breath for that which passes away
Speak it with confession and live forever
Not on clouds
But in the world. The real to come.

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