My daughter teaches me to slow down and listen.
She points to ants crawling on the brown dirt
and tells me strength is in community.
She looks up at the tree branches and explains
why birds are singing to one another.
My son names the names of birds and flowers,
ants and squirrels, airplanes and trucks.
He jumps and smiles and claps his hands.
Every time I’m with him I witness the birth of
our world, which is the birth of consciousness.
My children show me
how fragile and precious things are,
how everything points to death,
which is a doorway to life, which I must embrace.
If this isn’t the real work, I don’t know what is.
