The Weight of Being

If you ignore
the unequal parts
of weight...

for years
eternity traced
with hoary fingers

the form
of dying,

the fading color
of the hills,

measured
survival

against the jawbone of God...

and came up
empty handed.

How do you assume
dreams are made of

air

when they fall
as heavily

as dying?

In a single instance
of unmatched awe,

the hours recede,
the tide abates,
the ground consumes

its roses.

In the end,

the only difference
between light and dark

is a man
who remembered

"being".