Robert Verdon, #93, We are Nature Walking

the young stars were pinpricks in a shroud,

a flower not a flower, but a magic path,

so we might do what others dreamt about;

it was not night or day, but some

intermediate time, when boulders had the

strength of ice or water,

when decisions were made

with every consequence known;

our lives were diving from a tower

while terrified of heights,

our only fear, of dying

(or doing anything) in vain,

of breaking our necks

in a dry ditch —

until we saw that we were nature walking,

and that we were sleek and wet as hail or snow

or rain.