Through the door.

You may have been told you arrive and
leave the planet, and the doors are
birth and death.

I have a different sense:
you, yourself are the door through which
universal fire stares out,
seeing itself in everyday sunlight,
searching itself in stars that are long-gone,
circling itself in uncountable constellations.

Have you listened to the comforting crackle
of wintry sparks and embers in the grate?
Take a moment to hear the sun:
it may be possible to learn the message of that
savage sound beating in the skin.

The heat of your body has to come from somewhere,
the heart's hinges are not entirely
up to us.

Standing in the doorway,
I know that geometry has gone to every shape and place and
come back to where I am.
The mathematics of time can't
explain my constant centigrade,
and neither can I.

It doesn't make sense to wait
for death. We come and
go in ways that have
much to say.