ground of certainty

which first?
bad news or good?
in this garden
of embodiment—
the tiniest vole or
Andean condor
spinning planets
and vast black holes
even they birthe and die—
no certainty, not ever

“oh, if only!”
human hearts cry
“surely we can depend
on something?”
well, yes—but not
on some thing
no things are secure
they must come and go
make space for the new
so what is reliable?
the big field of knowing
the cosmos erupts
within “it”—see that

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.