stopping

A fingernail moon rises above the black lake,
a Cheshire reminder of mystic deeds in ages past,
the slow bobbing of my boat, the gentle dipping sloshing sounds of wood in water,
the complete quiet out here, silence untouched,
where I let no greater thoughts invade,
a protective cocoon, a sanctum, a bier.
All interactions with the world are as whispers
like shadowy fish that emerge for a nearly-missed moment
and are quickly engulfed by the still moonlit ink on which I float.
The womb of my birth lies far upstream, in a grey dawn of hospital lights and birth pangs,
and my childhood is merely a warm feeling of lost summers, whose details are washed out by the night that surrounds me.
My future is a boundless unmoving horizon.
The stars are missing.
Details are washed out by the night that surrounds me.

Spermatozoa SWIM their way towards an ovum.
Single molecules of DNA SEEK other molecules to merge with, and continue the cycle of life.
There is no visual metaphor that can better convey the impulse of life for self-continuation,
as if, once a body begins its slow decline, and begins to break down in stages towards an inevitable closure,
the larger organism of Life on this planet, and beyond, seems to persist unblemished,
enhanced even, by an exponential explosion of potential,
as if, the sentience of this being emerges in pockets, the physical bodies of people and animals,
briefly glows and shines its light of self-perception, and then moves on to another physical manifestation; as if this closed system of a universe awakens an avenue of introspection with the birth of every child, the fertilization of every mind.
Somebody said that we are thoughts in the mind of god, cells in the body of a deity,
it's hard to deny that with this simple image of life seeking to maintain itself, a driven self-propagating machine,
beyond all the derivative trappings of religious restrictions to thought and possibilities
the certitude of Life begetting life is undeniable. And beautiful beyond conception.