The Pasture

Beyond mind and words there is a pasture.
Spirit takes aim there, lets an arrow loose.

Pierced through the heart I stagger, then fall down.
After a season, all that remains in the tall green grasses:

a bleached skull leaking dark light, a random scattering
of immaculate bones, scoured smooth by the same force
that once adorned them in a suit of supple flesh.

They’ve achieved an elegant simplicity, no longer pining
to satisfy desire, nor regretful of what remains undone.

They’re stacked in a heap at the doorway of dusk,
the sole remains of a beautiful corpse, in the scheme of time
a mere wind-sifted shell, at last a crumbled smattering of dust.

Relaxing calmly now in the bliss of all rendered things,
they quietly blend with these words in the same way
starlight softly sifts through the infinite night —

not afraid, not afraid . . .
in their own way, brightly shining.

 

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