I am reading to the los beautiful beasties one poem a day (mas o menos) to honor: Truth. Protest. Beauty. Awareness. Engagement. Honesty. Love. Change. Humans. To honor this fragile, exceptional Earth.

Is Love
Maya Angelou

Midwives and winding sheets
know birthing is hard
and dying is mean
and living's a trial in between.

Why do we journey, muttering
like rumors among the stars?
Is a dimension lost?
Is it love?