There is a paradox between life and death. An inconsistency between fragility and the eternal. They fit, overlap in some places, and leave holes in other parts.
Where the wild lilies grow,
And the cherry trees cast off their satin shells,
I lie, face skyward bound,
Body echoed against the ground,
Limbs tightly held
And eyes wide, watering in the wind
Which should be warm
Yet renders heat blind,
A flame blown out but smoke still on the rise,
Signals on the hill
And in the glen
Footsteps tracking a line to your earthen den,
Boundaried and blocked
Six feet deep
I hope you have enough peace to sleep.