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The Weight of Gravity (or The Benefits of Ironical Living)


The Weight of Gravity

Life whispers, Be here, now.
The breath of this moment,
the sunlight slicing through blinds,
the hum of your own pulse—
this is all that exists.

Yet, somewhere, beyond
the reach of our skin,
an infinity expands —
untouchable, unknowable,
demanding our reverence.

We are told:
plant your feet in the soil of today,
feel the dirt between your toes,
but don’t forget
the stars burning light-years away.
Carry the weight of eternity
while dancing in seconds.

How cruelly beautiful
this contradiction—
to be both sand and mountain,
raindrop and ocean,
a fleeting ember
in an unending fire.

We chase permanence
with hearts built to break,
build monuments to memory
on the soft soil of now.
We are asked to hold the infinite,
but it slips,
always slips
through the cracks of our fingers.

Still, we try.
We inhale the present
and exhale a prayer
to eternity,
knowing we’ll never
truly
understand either.

The Insistence


The Insistence of Id

It arrives unbidden,
like the sharp caw of a crow,
piercing morning air.
The id—insistent, loud,
demanding its due,
as if the world owes it
every beam of sun,
every ripple of lake.

It swells in the chest,
an urgent tide of I am, I must, I deserve.
But listen: The woods breathe without names.
The finch takes nothing more
than a crumb of sky,
its heart unburdened by worth.

What is the self
but a flicker on the stream,
a shadow on the bank?
Let the wind take it,
let it scatter to the reeds,
where whispers live quieter
than any voice shouting mine.

Breathe slow,
as trees do,
each exhale surrender,
each inhale gift—
given, not claimed.

Here, in this clearing,
the id thins like fog,
its insistence fading.
And you—no longer its prisoner—
are free to be nothing,
and everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

For Kurt (or The Benefits of A Sunsick Ride)

And so it goes,
the tender edge of morning,
where light brushes grasses,
blades trembling as if
they remember night.

The heron lifts from reeds,
a single, deliberate motion
that breaks stillness
but leaves silence intact.

How delicate it is,
this rhythm of breath and wing,
the hush before the hawk’s dive,
the shimmer of water
before it disappears into the air.

Life balances here,
on this scalpel edge
of beauty and oblivion,
fragile as a spider’s thread
strung between within v(e)ines,
strong enough to hold the dew.

And so it goes,
the brief, feral grace of living,
each moment a presence
so light we barely feel its weight,
so immense
we are forever undone.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​