On the eve of our passing

While breathing seems counterintuitive
as agitated waters
fill the lungs,

create torrential pathways to the sea 

of all-knowing,

still, the pain of letting go

calls us,

invites us 

to listen 

to the rapids,

to bring scented plumeria

calm and sheltering

on the inhale,

a soothing salve

of comfrey and myrhh

for the exhale;

suggests we offer

rhythmic 

pulsing of our hearts

as counterpoint

to the staccatoed fearful eddies

to swaddle it in steamy blankets of breath 

to warn against the chill

of separation into oneness.

Who knew listening

could be so difficult?

Who imagined the resistance

to opening up cellular space,

the pull against sensing

into whispered whirling secrets

of longing and despair.

I understand, having lived

within the breath-stopping

rage of the waterfall,

the unwillingness to lay claim

to the rising panic

to believe survival will result

from moving up against

the aching bookends

of the day

when light has long since faded