Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

“Our species is committing suicide – that is a choice…”        -- Terry Tempest Williams

Death might be just a holy rend                      a stitch of good luck,
a weeping of snow melt.

How resurrection prefers dirty water and pain, I’ll never understand.
Her instructions comprise
                   a tiny storm of mercy– full of crows and bottle flies,
                                                               to debride the corpse,                                
                   and morning light              supple as fish bellies                                      
                                    to code a new practice,  
                                     day in and day out
                   and a renaissance of questions,               
      a splash of breath rinsed in tea leaves and sea air, 
until 
                   the blood and semen find their legs
                                                             to dance past angry prophecy 
                                                             and drab dreams.

Death confessed everything before he conjured the crisis, 
before he created the cliffhanger, 
the linchpin, 
the keystone, 
the choice.
   
And choice might just want a bed of gist,
a resonance of gravity and a nascent green stubble of winter wheat. 

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