On a Young Woman's Profile Against a Field of Tombstones

Arlington Cemetary, 2001 There is a universe reflected against your cheek, And a chill breeze tosses your hair aside to reveal an ear. Softly, gently, go the lives before us, Whispering on shifting air patterns if we have the clarity to listen. THUMP-THUMP the sound of the trump Playing the game to conclusions forseen HEAVE-HO now I must go To places that you cannot be TICK-TOCK the sound of the clock Chiming inexorably DING-DONG it's been far too long How many lumps with your tea? And perception scatters around us And perception shatters around us They were once beautiful, as every galaxy must be, Always expanding, always approaching doom, Attempting to reach one more star before the brutality of physics Smote them in an explosion of life and inevitability. But yours is no Milky Way (though your skin could be mistaken as such); Yours is something more. Yours is the Big Bang, the exception that proves God exists (In Nomine Patri) The exception that proves eternity can be conceptualized (3.14159265358979...) The exception that captures paradox, and thereby ensnares what this has always been about anyway (the average female snowshoe hare produces 36 offspring and lives two years): Life, Love, and the Pursuit of Happiness.