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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