Classic Poem

There isn't any death
but only constant life
lingering in the cells and the marrow
and the eyes of the world,

and how private
is this vision, this spinning
filament of grasses

and gentle seeds that blow,
and birds that fly back
on their way to the sun,

that often we miss the evidence
of turbulence and glow,
of after-peace and still dusks

when the winds seep in
to the joints of rocks and tree trunks,
when the branches

whistle like coyotes
and the clouds skidding through
the distance make remarks

about ages and ages,
and lifetimes that repeat
themselves forever down below.