Day 345

I am not a number; I am a blade of grass
in a field where animals graze until nightfall.
I am a star in a galaxy yet undiscovered,
an egg in the womb of a child unborn,
an egg in my grandmother’s womb
as she walks through ruined streets,
pregnant with my mother.  I am a voice
the wind echoes, a tree in a forest
sighing to other trees, leaning
against them.  I am not a number
recited on the news counting those
who died.  If I have died, look for me 
in the stamens of flowers, see
how infinitely I seed flower
after new flower until they cover
the fallen cities, the bodies torn, unfound.