sprouts (staring at the sun)

What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprout shows there is really no death; And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward-nothing collapses; And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

-- Walt Whitman, Song of Myself (14.)

Maybe that's the idea.

I'm part of a performance tonight in tribute to Masumi Hayashi. Our vignette is the last of four about dealing with loss:
Confirmation, the letting go, the moving on.

Confirmation?

I'm sticking in (new(dew)-due-)difficulty with the openness of improv.
In which moment does indirection decide?
In finding freedom's focus, and does it hold tension?