the slime and dirt and water of life
rises up…
all of earth’s creations
enter through the gooey warm mess
which cushions our fall…
plants from the ground
chicks from the egg
babies from the womb…
there is no other way to appear
but through.

The beginning is all the same
we are all the same
struggling to be clean
to be cleaned
by aid from another
the sun’s light and freshly falling rain
the mother hen and the air that dries fuzzy wings
the nurses and doctors and aides that bundle us up presentable…
without which would any of us survive?

Then we strike out
and the gooey mess becomes
hurricanes, tornadoes
and the farmer’s axe
and my father’s belt…
in perseverance we live,
some of us,
and feel guilt as others die,
never to return or to be born once again?
There is no way to know
or predict
or truly understand
all any of us can really do
is chew our cud
and survive.

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