We, who know so much, yet so little,
and thrive on our impulse to ask why,
Who investigate the shadows of outer space
and tread the dimensions of oceans.
Who engineer and persevere
yet squander and murder.
Who have flawed
yet immense organs of love.
Who imagine heavens
yet cinder earthly hells.
Who mend the damaged
yet chisel shell-shocked souls.
Who design rituals, murals and euphony,
yet assemble in crowds and shrill at the sky.
Who will go down as the most lovely
yet despicable creature
to inhabit earth.
Despite what we know,
we can only imagine
the plush, watery home of the unborn.
The lullabies of heartbeats, breath,
the soft warble of outside voices.
To live in total connection.
So many ways of knowing
alien to our experience:
The rose knows the delight of pollination,
The tingle of bee wings inside her.
The ant knows the load of a breadcrumb,
the manifold secrets of a morsel.
The sparrow knows the fabric of rainbows,
the fatness of earthbound rain.
The sequoia knows the feasts of soil,
the wiles of wind through stillness.
And only the moth knows its delirium for lamplight,
the sizzle of death for godly bliss.
And we, mystified, ignorant and beautiful for it.
Poem by Jessica Nash
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