ten thousand to one

there are
ten thousand imperfections
and just one life

there are in fact as many
as snowflakes on the hill, beneath the skids;
as the soft cells in a freckle,
as the birds above.

but still just one.

I have drawn my breath
against the headwind
of prevailing loves, to ponder
more, and more,
and every imperfection cedes to Now. I reach
for the searching root of you
and choose;
to pull you into me, to watch
our bodies twine, to find
a cradle big enough.

ten thousand imperfections,
and this our consolation:
to loose the cords of longing,
be undone
and loved again,
again, again,
before tomorrow.

sore and sorry for my crimes,
still I am just one life.