Third Verse to Coda

Staring into the vast empty blue of the sky, I was suddenly arrested by the overwhelming heaviness of being alive.

My body began to dissolve into its elements, breath to vapor, body to earth, spirit to sky, my awareness slowly weightless.

Consciousness formed into cloud, shifting and billowing and dancing a great choreographed ballet as it was perfectly meant to be.

Telling the story of unspeakable beauty, of horrifying tragedy, grief, and sorrow. Of struggle, of joy, of delight— past, present, future.

The scenes carefully orchestrated, dancers with routines memorized, water vapor perfectly portraying birth, death, in their due time.

Why should these be happening now, known to my body but not my consciousness, the parts of my life that must happen, no matter what?

Imagine then, the feeling of my  becoming aware—once again— of myself, sky without a cloud, but the remains of overwhelming grief.

Should I twitch my fingers, move my feet, breathe? Should I feel the sun on my face, the grass beneath my back, air?

Maybe I’ll give thanks for a moment, to whomever or whatever will listen, for my being alive, I think. Or, perhaps, the compassion of a new day.