“There’s a comfort in knowing that life moves on.
It plods forward like a workhorse, head down, hooves in the mud.
The sun rises and falls over the sea
Nothing is ever stagnant—
Nothing is ever still.
People blink and breathe,
And they’ll still be in their kitchen
Cooking
After we’re dead.
They’ll make eggs, and pasta, and talk about stale bread.
And if we’re very lucky—
One or two of them will hear the sound
Of the whistling hole
Torn through the fabric of the universe
At the loss of us.”
— Shawna Howson (‘12)
