the cries of gulls
and the drone of Cessnas
interrupt the tinkling
of wind chimes,
as I look upon the millions
of dead bodies
strewn across the face of the turf,
as the tide rushes for the shore,
and the church bells
all proclaim salvation;
most of the sailboats
are gone now,
off to their winter berths,
and the squirrels nervously
gather and scramble
to their oak leaf nests;
this is the season of dying,
and the way we meet --
like the sky and the gull,
beautiful, but gone too soon --
till the next gliding arc
of the rising bird,
like the days coming up
when I will be with You again;
each morning now passed
is one more closer to You,
and amidst all this mortality,
I suddenly feel very alive.

November 8 and 11, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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