by Ken Hada

There’s nothing new here:
It is older than the Garden
itself – a man sitting within earshot
of crows, hearing the eternal song
run again through his memory

a spring bubbling unexpectedly
up and grass bending all
around the breeze humming
that familiar tune in the afterglow
of death – friends come and go.

We speculate their new existence.
We long for their presence
in their absence, the heart
grasping anything – the great
uphill climb continues

and becoming honest, we
become divine – the acorns
fall to earth, grass bends
accepting them – the crows
keep time – the song endures.

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