Life and Death with Strangers

Mother, father, you are the strange migrants who arrived before me, I see you moving away, for no home anywhere could complete us all, and strangely, now I am before you. Sister, brother, child, we never did know which way to go, or from where we arrived from. A family history is no more nor less than a parable told to a raindrop, a poem written by the flashing rays of the sun. Familial lineage but a carnival carrousel spun by spawning glimmers in a hermit's cave. As for lovers, they die before our eyes and are born again as other strangers. Love is the forever unknowable, and yet it knows us, it is the stranger who knows the stranger. Love holds a mirror up to an ever-changing sky and demands that our view in that looking glass stay the same, even though that sameness, is but a Mayfly in a thunderstorm. Eventually, eyes must quicken to see beyond the lightning bugs, humans have to get along with our alienness, even as we are born to quickly die before our eyes.