Vital Statistics
My birth was recorded
in pencil on the bottom of a page,
written upside down
to keep my entry separate.
The land does not care
about the details of my birth,
whether I walk gravel roads,
through new plowed fields,
hoe in hand;
whether marsh squishes between my toes,
clear ground beyond.
Water, forgetful, does not care.
Air surrounds me
as if I'm chained and shackled,
a prison with no escape but one;
but air cares no more
for the details of my birth
than the land or water.
My passing may be written
in the way of an ordinary death,
or pass unnoticed,
the binding cut so clean
no vibration singles I've departed.
The land may notice for less time
than it takes for a virus to sneeze.
Water, without memory, will find me
and assist worms in their work.
And air?
Air will not care,
at least not after the smell
has dissipated.
Writer's Hood, the best poetry on the web, at http://www.writershood.com/
Poets for Peace.... ˇPoemas sí, balas no!
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