I woke up wondering
today
what it means to be
born from ashes.

We come from the ones
who have come before,
and others will come from us:
One long thread of creation,
one story.

But this too, I believe:

Our lives are made
from death,
from the last, scattered remnants
of what has been utterly lost.
Our being, our breathing,
our birth, our becoming,
our becoming again.
All of us and all of life:
holy, impossible
hope.

A new echo after the
final word.

I needed to know this today.

Always, always,
the last gasp
and the first gasp
are the same.