Without Reason

Without Reason

Because in the midst of a storm
a tree can be halved by lightning
and spare one survivor between Heaven
and home, and because water

can flow from the tub, seep though
a floor of another man’s ceiling
who’s thankful for rain when his
dwelling is parched-- and because

one's speech is occasionally slurred from
the onset of illness rather than gin,
proven by doctors in search of a cure--
and because a woman will die

in childbirth before the infant is placed
on her belly, for the joy of life
and being a mother. Because of this
in the name of gratitude

I’ll write you a poem, imagine you
reading my hodgepodge of lines
with a need for hope and hands
raised high, for the craving of fingers

to wrap around fingers, connecting
souls to a man-made steeple. Because
of this, I’ll write you a poem and a poem
and a poem, until we know all that we

don’t; until we embrace all that we
aren't, until we're in awe of ourselves
and the universe, forever united
within these words.