Right now, my soul longs to
lie on top of a grassy hill,
back flat to the earth where
dust to dust is just as close
as it will be until my Day.
Ringed by red pine stretching
heavenward, crowns lifted
in fragrant praise and offering
for having roots – and giving them –
as ancient Will intended.
Crows dance their way
to a perch on bending bough,
and with cawing clamor delight
the air with tales of tricks
and treasure laid bare.
One crow struts, head cocked
to bide his time by my resting place
to think thoughts with me
and contemplate the Ecclesiastical
nature of a Spirited life.
As the nipping of the night
chill stirs skin and feathers,
we dream together on shiny things
in the darkening, endless vault,
with prayers and psalms carried
Throne-ward by piney balm.
a tilting of air 