Why do we mourn death still?
Patterns of weft in web we walk upon—
familiar spaces that structure us will
in time be gone—
for truly, nothing shifts,
and all things shift.
Familiar face we base our lives upon.
Whirling in space and time, the push and pull,
balance and spin—
we come to know the steps,
and love the dance
and so forget, in momentary trance
all needs of this
dark body, mind, and chore—
simply exist— joy rumbling at the core,
so effortless.
Yet all things shift
amidst the threads and mist
where we spin still,
learning the weft of this.
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