From above—

petals on a river, a tree in blossom, one
pink bud—unopened—falls

& is carried downstream & out
to sea. The other petals seem to carry

it. Closer—

this is our map, these our footprints, we
grew up drinking this water. At the start

there was doubt, we lit a torch, no one
believed we would make it. Closer—

the legs, the heart, the lungs. It’s too soon
to say we were lucky, it’s too soon to say

anything, until the cloud is pulled back
from the sky, until the ringing

is pulled back from the bells. Look—
everyone we’ve ever known

runs without thinking
not away but into the cloud, where we

are waiting.

—NICK FLYNN, 15 APR 2013