Only by snapping open scarlet runner bean pods
do we see they are lined with fuzz, shaped
to each vividly hued bean
like a viola case to its instrument.
Only by slicing open a trout
are its bones revealed, lined up like pews
facing the back of a moving church,
its scripture stories of what came before.
We see stars only in the darkness,
feed a flame only by burning,
fuel our bodies only with what lived.
You’d think we’d see a pattern,
yet are surprised when loss
tilts our world, lifestream
into waterfall. We’re told grief
ebbs, when all we want to do
is bring sorrow’s fullness
out in the sun’s cleansing light.
Lay it on the rocks.
Let it air.
