What's Next?

The great unknown is not
the daily rush out the door,
into the routine encasement
in cold metal, rolling down
the highway on another
commuter morning.

It's not there with the pushing
sound of birth, with screaming,
crying, fluids and now all eyes,
on this wet infant taking their
first miracle, a breath of air.

Not infused in the warm air
waiting for a sentence to
become a spoken future, in the
brown and gray courtroom
by people who do not smile.

What about graduation day
standing at the door and looking
past the smeared wooden door
jamb into the future air, swirling
with spring pollen, blue sky and
wrinkled black robes?

No. I feel the great unknown in
the new world flush of terror
after slipping past the blue green
hole in the ice. In witnessing
the strained, listening minute
between last breath and death.
In the bright pause between
idea and creation.