Energy was always here.
Before we gave it hands

to tender us along our path
to death. Before it showed us

gratitude for a limited stay
and a back to lie on beds.

It was always then.
Before we named the past

as to desperately let it live
in our now. Because we fear

the ever happening, the invisible
movement that ripens beneath

our flesh. Energy is always here.
Before we measure its arms

that reach and touch our children.
The ones that play in golden

dust boxes, the ones that grow
to be stern in the face, strong chins

that never let tears pass them. The
ones that are brief in word, and

work long hours. It will be
then, even after we comprise

our calendars with birthdays
and holidays and funerals.

Arthur's picture

Last updated June 15, 2011