[And isn’t everything risk?] by Gregory Orr

[conuly]

And isn’t everything risk?

The beloved lives
Then dies,
Then (if we’re lucky)
Rises again
Into a poem or song

Or into the world
In some other form
Impossible to predict.

Simplest story, oldest tale:

Sparrows sing it
From every hedge;

And swallows, also,
From their nests on the ledge.

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