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Harmony Between The Wind And Me
Before I die, take me to the grove by the
creek. Prop me up against one of those
fossil oaks with more rings than I have
years, with the sun pressing shady layers of
leaves through perforations in the treetops. And the
deer will rear their heads, my caring company
wide-eyed beneath gnarled wicker horns, listening
to the peaks and valleys in my now-dissonant hum.
When Death comes, He will find me capable. I'll have
him tie up His horse where it can graze and I'll
sing a song to Him. He'll tell me the secrets of the
universe - how we're all children of the stars, how they
whisper to us in our sleep and influence our dreams. He'll
ask me if I'm afraid, and I'll weave my fingers into the grass and
smile in His direction with tears welling in my eyes. And only
when the sunlight trills down behind the treeline's cool
gradation will I take to the back of His stygian mount,
stamping off into the sky over a pale scythehook moon that takes
some of its light from the fading warmth in my shell.
After I die, you will find me purifying under a
cloak of leaves, but still unclean. Take me
away to a place where flames burn in columns and
cleanse my skin and bones. As my flesh and
muscle turn to ash, see how it captures me, the
way the tongues of fire tell me everything will be
alright.
When I am made to dust, take me to the grove by the
creek. Prop me up against one of those
fossil oaks with more rings than I had
years and scatter me to the wind so that
I may make fertile the soil and float
downstream on the water's currents. And
maybe, just maybe, if the sun is pressing shady
layers of leaves through perforations in the treetops,
and the deer rear their heads, you can listen to the
harmony between the wind and me.
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