like teardrops fade

we are made 

then reformed as deer

or tree

or stone

or human again

and what is just a little beyond

just behind 

this gossamer curtain 

between breath and death

it’s mystery mostly

as insignificant but soft flesh

how alive the narrative 

how cold the ground beneath

quiet barefooted claims 

in tune with a river 

a standing cliffside

the wind being the only way

to dry, like her face, the sun 

radient claims on mine

~Olvr