Being Here

If it's true we were made
in image, not the molten
liquid rock and star, would
it make a difference?

Ask the bird who has forgotten
where she came from, sings
joyfully, a little bell until
she falls and silenced, did she care?

And if you question the mountain,
his snow-fleeced cap, his jagged
quiet mouth will not tell you
how he came to be.

Because the infinite has no name,
no photographs of cradled planets,
no wise old man to reproduce
a blueprint, it doesn't depreciate

the value of being here.

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