A million tragedies could bring us down.
A bump! The flesh and bone, her hand on mine,
A frightened monk, scared mindless out of time,
A boat, I say, we ride the wake; won't drown.
My daughter, tiny, 's shaking at the sound
Of passengers who verbalize each climb.
No context, knowing just the fault is mine,
Such innocence I've cleft apart from th' ground.
The bumps don't mean we're crashing. Rarely do.
Although, I guess, each crash had its bumps too.
Why would you bring me here, she thinks, to die?
You raise me, feed me, kill me in the sky.
Imagine ducks who fly along and see
Us people shaking 'round in agony.
Their life is rough, they're rattled all flight long,
Then land upon the lake to quack glad song.
A flight that rattles lands us in the end.
Hang on, kiddo. You'll land and fly again.