We would have us believe this tree
flowering and bearing sweetest fruit
is the death knell of a seed,
that once entwined with animal fur
found home in fertile soil.
We might see an empire of clouds
reflecting every tincture of light
and decide this transient beauty
is the death chant of a river.
Perhaps we should bow to whispers
that butterflies blown through glories of flowers
are but death knells of caterpillars
we tried to avoid in the mud.
And just as we hear sweet melody, singing
through branches of our minds,
Would we say this song is dying,
even as it is sings?
Does the silent moon decry
the death of a blazing sun?
Always ourselves arriving,
How would we lie and say
that now, you have passed?
Is a rock separate from a blade of grass?
Is it liquid, this thin shield of death,
this transparent divider of glass?
Let me in, sweet sister, to your sweetness
Let me dissolve in the nectar of all you are
Let me absorb you into earthly tone
Let it come, let it be, let it be free.
Not grieving but living again
as each step to death
walks us closer to life.
