life of beingness

distant memories make us the dry-goods,

primed for the kindling of the future weep.

some days like these ever provide

the scrip for one's autobiography

that becomes loudly pronounced

after having lived them

oh if tombstones or ashes could tell 

the original detailed story

and not summarize even once

then each read would have an authentic life

outside of its primary existence in time

one's departed soul would regard 

each reading 

as an act of sincere kindness

as a giving back by reflection in return

for there would be the authentic feel 

of less aloneness after death

and a sense of more momentous aliveness

for having initially lived it

that is for each of us 

now dead or alive

for us to become aware

that each breath we breathe

is lucidly original

and produces no repetition

that each of us is eventually 

as a grain of sand

unique to its origin and to its journey

from the mountain from which 

we as oneness came

if then we regard the oceans as all ink

then the clouds are all 

these written transcripts

and eventually all the rains 

are our autobiographical memories 

spoken in fluid freefall out loud

so that no one is ever truly forgotten

for their lifetime journeys

and the sky-fall weep 

provides the nourishment

for life to be lived

and for the cycle of livingness

to carry on with reverence

as distant memories spoken

over and over  

for life of beingness 

to carry on . . .