BLUR

Friday morning greetings to all...


The mother of all turtles.
It's day three and she’s back.
This time, I think, to lay her eggs.
To give of her life. To pay it forward.
She’s been nesting here
just a few feet away from me
since well before morning’s first light.
Every movement pain-stakingly slow.
Purposeful. Progenitive.
Preordained?

She’s back.
In the grand scheme of things,
is this her one must that matters?
To lay her precious little ones
at the sandy edge of a rocky ledge
where they’ll cartwheel down
and plop into the pond;
their opening scene
of this surprise
we call
Life.

She’s back.
What an honor to witness
this act so intimate, so ancient;
this primordial passing of the peace
that’s been going on since long before rhythm,
gracing since long before the dawn of rhyme,
partaken of before my attending eyes.

She’s back.
Compared to her, my life’s a blur,
“And to what end?” I ask myself.
Is there more to me than she?
And why, in the whole of time and space,
so close an encounter between us?
Is her presence in itself a preaching?
Is it, too, for the giving of life,
for a purpose as holy as hers?

Do I, like she, have a reason to be
that lives beyond my blur?