if i had to sing

I have no idea what to call this rebirth

and yet I’m here to name it

to feed the new flame

with wood from the old.

Language is a flute, a lily,

a chair overbalancing,

a church we teeter

on the threshold of.

There are places where

they harvest water from the air–

drink fog from a glass then overnight

hang the rag back on the bayonet.

Does a thing which is reborn

need to have died?

All those cities still live

in my mirrors, they rise

and fall again with the sun’s

rounds, the way the planet

carves its own seismic

trench in the solar system.

The spring charges

and recharges its river system

while on the columns of our lives

press unimaginable stresses.

Hold me up now, as I do you.

Sing, and steady me under

your strong, sure feet.