.

Say good, say goodbye

.

Bright in the box in the cupboard

where the keepers of conscience and trivia

highjack the pacing depths

to replace it with an easily peeled-off

sheen. It is time to bloom,

to say goodbye to books and playballs of requisitions,

decoding philosophy and revelations in tune

with taking a stance.

 

Death, I am a robin’s feast with

dandelion breath

stalling at the toddler tree

worshiping what is yet to bud.

 

Death, you made me confused, me,

the revealer of the signs,

mountain-top screamer, fencer for

a fourth-dimensional world.

 

Flat rocks in a circle, gulls circling

one graveyard, spot

of significant mourning. Faint lines.

But God is solid, exact, without

need of interpretation. Death

 

is only a layer reached

and removed, when traveled

then traveled through.

 

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

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