Helen Esther Blum ≈ Poem

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Poem

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It shouldn’t really surprise us that
underneath the fur, the fleece the skin of us we are
a pulsing pulpy mass of red blood, flesh and bone, gore and guts.
Whether the surface is feathers or freckles we are
a whirlwind of instincts and raging heartbeats of survival.

We are alive and messy.
Therefore we are.
The stars look down and see
the thermal patterns of earth’s creatures
shifting, lifting, adrift in the rifts of our crust,
the boom and bust of us who
set our sights on the stars of the night,
for their unwavering constancy is just
what our fancy needs to pull us out of the mud.
A bud on a bush can do that too,
can stir our blood, but spring sun
can also melt the snow
to show the crud below.
It shouldn’t really surprise us
that underneath the lust of us is just the chaos.
The lesson of rawness brings the test of truth.
The truth of lessoning brings the decline of time.
Trust can’t be timed.

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