Homework. A Work In Progress

A young man was buried today
amid the frosted grass and early, empty sky.
There was only one mourner –
unless you count the birds
gathered high in the branches
lending their slow, trilling heartsongs to the brightening air,
or the willow and the locust trees
who held space, solemn and sacred,
or the sweet, waking earth upon which he was laid.

Honored and hushed, death was sung,
prayers sent beyond, carried in melody and pearl smoke
to mingle with the birdsong and, at some point,
as water slips effortlessly from the shore,
his spirit slipped from his body.
No longer having use for such trappings as
sinew and bone, or even thick, lush fur
the color of a sullen sky,
he left it behind for other things;
Silvery glimmers of light and promise.

An empty vessel, broken and discarded
returned to the fragrant, turned earth,
while a roughened voice lamented with
grief and praise, which are often the same song,
and some simple notes of pure gratitude,
while the burnished ivory sun climbed above
the sentinel trees.

There were crocuses under the willow then
blooming in a soft, sudden cloud
of purple and white and saffron brilliance
unnoticed before, as was the tender
growth of the red dogwood,
and the robin, by whose humble presence
winter is banished for a time.

Endings and beginnings dance through lifetimes,
as if hand-fasted lovers,
creating a grace of possibility between them.
Open hand with open heart;
incarnations of graciousness.
This was the lesson from the young man,
who had come, after all, in his seeming of death
only to teach.