We die everyday,
many small deaths—
our cells, our thoughts,
our certainties. We
die and we die and
we live through our
dying long enough,
sometimes, to recall
how we almost died,
but instead were spared
by the falling rock—though
it could be by wave, fire,
screech of brakes, or
avalanche—only
to wake up the next
morning and start dying
some more. Here we are,
dying, even now, one
small death at a time—
and despite (or because of?)
all this shedding, this loss,
we are so much more
nakedly yes
alive.