Rise

One thing happens, then another.

In the long slow rise, so many hands

reach out and lift us

over fallen branches, hidden drops,

hard crops of stone. The moon

tilts up its yellow chin. The clouds

disperse. We grow into a face

our mothers recognize as someone else,

a father’s father, sister’s sister.

Nobody is single in this world.

That’s all we know, will ever know,

about the ways we come and go.

We’re pulled to presence by a doctor’s

urgent, gentle hands; we’re laid

to sleep and covered over. Nobody’s

alone. I’m here with you. Here

reaching for your fingers, holding on.