In Memory of My Grandmother

Points of Light

We don’t remember our births--
That instant in time when
Nothingness blooms into a tentative consciousness
Spreading out into all space in every direction,
No trace of separation from the wisps of scents,
The music of many voices,
Or from such minute particles as the dust motes floating in the air
Backlit by the sun streaming through the windowpane,
Like the universe floating in that shaft of light.
That instantaneous creation of a being (all being?)
Is a tenuous thing, yes.
But quickly accreting particles of
Sight, sound, taste, touch
Soon assemble a solid body.

We don’t remember our births.
Likewise, we won’t remember our deaths,
When those particles of our solid being disaggregate,
escaping and spinning crazily out into the void.

But, ah, the in-between,
When billions of suns blaze across the heavens
And dance in intricate rhythm with each other.
That, we remember.

UPDATE: I just came across a quote from poet/writer/naturalist Diane Ackerman that gets at exactly what I was trying to express here: "It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery, but what a savage and beautiful country lies in between." (!!)