Anew

a poem about always living multiple times

I have never quite understood
the statement that men
who claim themselves as wise
keep on serving me on a silver plate —
you only live once.

Oh, how could you say that?
How could you say something so
cruel and cold and distant
from all the life that's happening around you,
constantly and always and again and again?

How could you say that when
birds keep singing every day,
sunflowers keep turning their heads,
and spring never fails to come.

How could you say that when
everything keeps spinning in circles,
unstoppable powerful ancient and wise,
and talks to you, talks talks talks.

Can't you hear it?
It's talking to you, don't you hear it?

The whispering of the wind.
The mumbling of the waves.
The joy of the swallows.
The growing of the wallflowers.
The laughter of the stream.
The shouting of the tempest.
The soothing of the sky.

All of it here to tell you
that you're alive, alive, alive.

And you live and keep living and start living anew,
start off from a clean slate,
untethered unbothered pure empty white,

every single morning.

You don't only live once —
how cruel it would be,
to show you the beauty once
and then never again.

You live, again and again and all the time,
and you start anew with each day.
A new chance to smell the sunshine,
and drink the coffee,
and live as many times as you allow yourself to:
so allow yourself to.

To call love by its name.
And to fall into it.

To expose your skin
to the flow of salty air.

And if a butterfly touches you
and you look away
and at a second glance it's not there anymore,
just know —
there will always be another one.

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