we are made
then reformed as deer
or tree
or stone
or human again
and what is just a little beyond
just behind
this gossamer curtain
between breath and death
it’s mystery mostly
as insignificant but soft flesh
how alive the narrative
how cold the ground beneath
quiet barefooted claims
in tune with a river
a standing cliffside
the wind being the only way
to dry, like her face, the sun
radient claims on mine
~Olvr
We are made to last...
A monument of celestial glory.
Nice poem