The Days are Gods
Let the body go.
Let it lie beneath the sycamore
or, burned to ash,
sink into the soft green moss that drapes its roots.
Let the earth spin as it will spin,
in and out of daylight,
batted round the seasons,
summer’s riot giving way to autumn’s reason,
winter’s blasted heart beguiled
by witcheries of spring.
Let the iris strut its purple finery
and the morning glories whoop and jive.
Let the carrion crow feast on plovers’ eggs,
the roots of the black oak burrow down
into the dark continent of the numberless dead.
Let us forgive the world for what it will do to us.
Let this be enough.
(in memory of my mother)