At my feet in the grass, two graves marked “unknown.”
We do not know the lives that have come before us.
Still, we walk through and amongst those lives and their
sweet tendrils, the vines that have unfurled from a distant seed,
which is always beyond our knowing.
Who made the world and the lessons it prepares for us?
Where does this web begin?
With flowers left at a grave marked “unknown.”
With hands that have held babies and grass
and earth, forks and shoes and life itself.
Hands I shall never know the touch of –
other than by feeling my own.
These hands. These.
I come from somewhere. I come from everywhere, and nowhere.
I ride on an endless ocean of breath, filling and emptying us all,
so subtle and loving, a great pulsation merging to a hum –
singular and anonymous together.
This life. This.
The known unknown.