A Bud is Supposed to Flower

Listen, the world isn't asking 
       for your sacrifice; or your
ladder of bones, your collection 

       of skin and hair, fingernails.
When it's time to give back what you
       were given, you'll slip  

anyway under the same ancient quilt 
       that's covered the vast under-
ground with a galaxy of spores. 

       Why not answer the hours 
with the softer parts of attention? 
       Morning cycles through noon, 

then travels to the place where 
       the sun's copper drops into 
a locked pauper's box. That kind 

       of wealth doesn't really 
disappear; you simply don't see it 
       for the agitation of birds, or 

the flickering of moths rising from
       your chest to the narrow
channel of your throat. How 

       to trust the stillness
of nothing having happened yet;
       of a future not necessarily unkind.

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