haltingly, a hopeful contempletive tries to explain:

all around us, things are dying small
deaths. we run here and there
with eyes closed, barely
breathing for fear. but sometimes
we pause, we open
our hands, and we try to feel
all of it.

we settle clumsily into our bodies and
we sit with them: the comings
and goings, the births
and deaths. we learn to trust
in very small gifts.

we try to make our breaths
say ‘thank you’
until every rise and fall
is a murmur of
gratitude.

safe in open hands, fear
purrs, sheaths its claws, and
curls into sleep.