Come out.
See what sets fire to your tree lines. Walk in the woods. Find life corrupted, bursting forth in resplendent display of inevitable erosion.
Explosive beauty in gross decay.
Admire with fine eyes, trample with firm boot. Grind into the dirt, death’s child. Bury in the ground, life’s seed.
Come out.
Take in with awe gracious dissent. Be still in death. Think on the tree Winter’s lonely companion. See white powder on earth’s fair face. Made up for a funeral.
Come out.
Take deep breaths of embalming air. Turn your ear toward hints of birdsong. Exhale, renewed. Rest in a world held still. Awake upon my resurrection.
Come out.
Notice the turns of a tilted world. Hear the cries of the born, the cheers of life sustained, the sighs of the dying, the silence of the dead.
Come out, then return. Member of the turn.
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