Where does life arise?
Life rises out of
a
melted turkey and swiss,
or a grilled cheese
with tomato soup on the side,
or a big glass of chocolate milk.
Life rises out of
a
impenetrable
wholeness.
We see it in the eyes of little creatures,
and we see it in the eyes of the dying.
Life rises out of
a
chaos,
tenacity,
enchantment,
and a lust for life itself.
Life rises out of
a
love,
an adoration
for gripping the very facet of existence in your tiny red hand,
and squeezing the juice out of your own creation.
Life rises out of
a
void
from which we both arrive and depart,
like an airport,
like an airport.
Life rises out of
a
plane ride in-between.
The airport gave birth to the plane and the wings
from which we carry our meaning in a hand wrapped gift
with a mostly lucid bow on top.
Life rises out of
a
flight attendant asking if you want crackers or cookies.
As if— two hours is too long to go without gluttony.
As if— to say, “we won’t let you stray too far away from your earthly form here on this
plane,”
a
journey
between
two arrivals and
two departures.
