You question me when I say
that all loss is permanent and temporary.
How can that be, you say
when I can’t even remember what I ate
on this day in 1983, or the color
of her hair when she turned 102.
Without flinching I reply
without saying a word or sparing
an empty platitude, that all loss
isn’t even loss, that every moment,
every seed, every blade of grass
is imprinted on eternity, even
what some might refer to as the ultimate
I Am. Existence, you say, is finite.
Even if the globe should fall
heroically and unequivocally into the sun,
and a disembodied voice intones
emphatically, NO HEAVEN FOR YOU,
certainly all things must pass.
You remain silent as I reply,
just because everything slips away
doesn’t mean it doesn’t return
to where it came from. That’s how it is, after all
with you and me and me and you, one two, one two.
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