Incarnate life subsumes us in the dangerous –
the body feels, reacts, discerns – soon learns
that nothing doesn’t have a consequence
which isn’t deeply steeped in sorrow. We borrow
what we can from promises of hope, yet always
have again to cope with matter – not the fleeting
spatter of the spirit – of the soul we’re told
is what created us, and made us whole.It’s hard for flesh to keep this notion fresh.