Seen from a distance in a doorway
like a fossilized dragonfly in amber,
a small thorn in the spine, the statue
of a silver magician I gave you
on the nightstand.
Remember I told you to be confident
despite the marks of your father,
his wounds in your skin.
You're going places. For the rest
of us, this is just some place;
to you this is source. Where all things
meet to rest or play or kill.
We must believe in transience
if we are to believe in destination,
in escaping gravity. Nature's fist
beats her children into submission
catches them in traps then releases
them injured. On alternate paths
at times with collective vision,
we see faces of our own kind, recognize
the deformities and struggle
to heal them.