Lives That Live (redux)

Are there those knowing
not of avarice beneath the cloth
exposing elements innate,
allowing light of trajectories
to seek ISness of path?

Do such persons wander
freely as fluff from cottonwood,
floating warily
to avoid clinging,
and death?

Is there drinking
little of glory,
but openly embracing encounters,
knowing each moment
upon the desert enforces
gratitude for water’s small reward?

Do they embrace verdicts
as always a quenching of
one’s own creation,
the creating of one’s own reality?

Wondrous,
these feathered creatures that soar,
these scaled antiquities that swim,
these cells that clamor,
whether confined in Petri dish ,
or a protective mother's umbilical nourishing.

Who resolves
to be not victim,
or bearer of sword?

Quash not the thunder
or find discomfort from rain,
for liquid knows forward-down,
as flowers know up,
as the unborn sense beyond.

Yes.

We are Here.
Man either accepting his existence
as part of infinity's spec-like dust
or begrudging eternity’s cyclical essence.

To be
or
not to be,
as the Bard always knew,
is but
nature's womb of nurture.

The fortunate understand
that breath has a time-table to meet,
‘til birth’s moment of cries
beckons to the eternal echoes,
announcing the exit of Was for
for a life that Is.

Such begins the living moment to moment awareness,
the survivalist’s need to live for life.