To Unbury

Well-dressed in dust,
they repair your hands
as if you were sleeping; rarely beauty

survives the teeth of time.

As for me, these tear-filled eyes
steeped in dreaming recognize
the rhythm of the final dance.

Could it be this cold, dead insect
whose wings are made of ice
are mine?

Quietly, the Inconsequential

Three broken bones and still
I comfort the fearful; cracked stone
among stones supporting the mortar.

It's not often now I think of dying.
I'm busy awakening flowers,
their small mouths opening, startled;

slowly the inconstant light, how it
turns from joy to sorrow.

In the natural world, all things
fear the unknown, how it swallows
the living, disassembles the bones,

rearranges the overturned fields
into meadows of grasses.  Yet just

on the other side of what matters,
the seemingly inconsequential life of a stone
stays riveted in a constant state of denial, 

quiet, hopeful and strong.