etiam atque etiam

again and again, though it might as well be always

again and again, but I have forgotten

the latin word for always. the search continues:

somewhere here, out there, the next departure point,

the lip of the wave curling onto shore suddenly rears skyward,

sweeping that threshold

with its question. what is a life.

and whose answer do we choose.

the children marching that way, our compulsion

to find the familiar skirt, stay put,

wait it out, what's the hurry

the passing of days, grades, the camaraderie of those

caps tossed into the air,

the hand receiving a familiar warmth,

the signing to the dotted line, the walk toward the first day

then the last,

a list because this year the whole family is coming

it might be uncle bob's last you never know.

the trunk and what was placed inside forgotten

opened a hundred years later

as if the life never existed
until

the unopened letter, the lawyer's office, the smell

of earth:

open, steaming into the light and a fine mist

the air bright with a swirl of birds fighting

the thick and yet clean sound of shovel,

plans for coffee if there is time.

whose life was it and where were they going,

maybe the r left out is a mistake, a cosmic joke

and obit once meant orbit

and where can one go if given the choice,

etiam atque etiam

again and again;

we return.