I do not know the weight of mud,
the way they say it sucks you down
and throws upon you what you’ve outgrown;
but I do know the weight of blood,
how it ties you to life, to love,
and to people you’ve never known.
I know too well the lapse of days,
the way minutes disappear into years
and the shrinking time leads my fears;
but I do not know if spirit stays
when bound to this plan, to this love
of listening to what the heart hears.
I do not know the flight of bird,
the arc of wing or speed of air
or if he flies without a care;
but I do know the might of word,
whether it was kind and fair
or when spoken pain was spared.
I do not know the stretch of trees,
if their long arms dare to hug the sun
while underground roots continually run;
but I do know the catch of please,
how you are obligated to do or be done
as if you were ever really anyone.
And yet I know the cost of wind,
what is lost when breath lets go
and that which was will cease to know;
and better, I know the frost of sin
when all bitterness returns to snow.
In the cold, life and love still grow.