God works in infinite numbers;
Man is bound by singletons.
I picture a solitary butterfly,
At most a few, hovering over a meadow.
The migration of the Monarchs
Delivers an uncountable number.
Destiny is never as simple as it seems.
The universe teems with life,
Constantly revising itself;
Any catalogue is merely provisional.
And suitably so, since our lives
Are provisional too—
A foreword, an open door
Leading to another realm.
We are destined for our own revision,
Passing on when this passage ends.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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