The Begetter of Life Is Dark

A schematic of passion reveals nothingclearly. My mothers, sisters, and in-lawsare drop-jawed for the natural world, unfurlingatlases and mapping possible solutions

to their ongoing state of gridlocked wanderlust.They run, bike, hike, and read storiesabout inimitable human feats. They race fartherthan I’d choose to drive on an afternoon cruise.

This year they’ve taken to the garden, leavingmy thumb the only that has not gone green.I watch from the rafters as they trade adviceon bone meal and deadheads. It sounds grim,

but is not. The same might be said of my writing:it sounds grim, but is not. The begetter of life is dark.This is something we all understand. So whatdoes it mean that I am within a brood of nature

enthusiasts? Nothing, clearly. I also love to tendtenderly, touching hands to where existenceslips to steam. What can be done with a trowelcan be done with a pen. A word is a corpse,

or perhaps a corpse flower. Together we wash it,and comb it, and turn its face toward heaven.