by Jim Krosschell

A rogue cell in the marrow
divides uncontrollably
and strangles a node.
A rogue star like an arrow
unbinds from its galaxy
and streaks for the void.

That’s knee-trembling stuff.
But gather yourself.
Pretend you’re a deity
who shapes synchroneity.

First, try to be humble:
those one trillion stars in Andromeda,
and cells! thirty times that number
in your body’s biota.

Marvel at speed:
stars blow past, freed;
each ninety days all your cells die,
in full re-supplied.

Be awed:
by distance and blood.

And even if cells may kill in the end,
each day until then —
a lover plays jazz on your skin,
a dog wags its whole-body greeting,
you walk in a morning’s new snowing —
dawns as if god-sent,
for we gleam like stars
when we measure our years
in light.

Image via Pexels by Marek Piwnicki