The Seasons Inure Us To Loss Poem by Robert Ronnow

The seasons inure us to loss
whether a vote of confidence
or no confidence
we are neither more nor less

in our hearts and souls. We are still
whole, history
forgets our story
but immortalizes us, nothing is annulled.

Today's board vote affects my livelihood
how and what I hunt and gather
money, but not whether
I live or die. That's God's and luck's neighborhood.

I like capitalizing God
although I don't believe and can't imagine
an intelligence managing or wanting to manage
this interface of rock and flesh, fire and sod.

It comforts me to acknowledge
billions of my betters,
equals and the poor in letters
big and small. I have no vantage

from ridges I have been
Cercocarpus, rattlesnakes, dry and hot
places thought, worry, planning do not
stop. May they inure me to my end.