fits

a white bear sits
on the green side of the hill
holding a red
red
rose. 'my heart,'

cries the crow
as she leaps into a sky
torn open by flame. the bear
glances aside
and feels her shadow fall
onto the silence of grass
stretching upward. 'where

does my life
fit into all this, where
does my life fit?'

who asks this? not crow,
nor bear,
nor rose,
nor sky,
and grass sings only
what the earth
might wish
to speak,
(just as a dog
might laugh as he trots aside
to shit on a well tended
lawn) and yet,
who might be so uncertain
as to where her life

might fit into all this?
who?
for even if white bears
might sometimes wish
the red roses
they hold were instead
rainbow dappled ice,
they sit tight anyway and

the crows yelling
while leaping
into skies aflame with yet
another day
bound to become falling ash
never question whether it
(the leaping, the yelling)
is worth it --
they know where they are -- they know
how they fit --

encompassed inside them
is this knowing. it rides
their blood tides, it shines
from their eyes, it tints
feather, fur, leaf edge and cloud
tendril. there is simply
no room
for questions as vain
and silly
as this.
so,
who asks?

foolish human, naked
wanderer, lost
and yet found, blind but
not deaf, willing and yet
unable
to get it, to get this, what all
the rest of it knows without thinking,
without pausing to ask.
for in the pause
is the losing, in the asking
is the losing, in the thinking
is the ridiculous loss
of what every living being
is born with, given by earth, by breath, by sun shade and
star fall.
moon hovers and shelters every last single one of us, and so
to ask, 'where do i fit'
is to refuse the banquet spread before you,
to scorn the feast, to be boor,
fool.

crow is no fool. crow,
bear, even dog knows
the world
is one big sandwich. they do not question.
they eat.
grass eats earth
and sky breathes plant and
sun feeds moon
while quenching itself.

we
are it
and it
all fits.