Song of Death
By Tamara Williams
Perhaps the trees are old enough to know
this sphere of ending is not end
but a transition in the cycle of life.
We are never willing to acquaint ourselves
with this void,
Yet it is a constant peculiar presence
In our realm.
The very seed dies in the earth
before the tree thrusts through the surface
Beneath its roots lie the vessels of passing souls,
once the conduit of energy alive
A finale of voices holding power
The beloved cling to memories,
Not ready to bury their treasured presence
But death takes without consent.
Not even the loudest of wails
can pry a soul from its grips
When death comes it breathes a heaviness in the atmosphere
Faint perfumes of sorrow
embalms a quilt of distress
A pain more rooted that the very trees living
It is a shaking
A silent scream
A foreboding whisper
Sometimes lending clues to its entrance
And other times, smiting without warning.
These days it seems to be lurking,
not far from us
Not cycling in phases.
No rest from grief
We clutch for understanding
Struggle to tarry without pieces of humanity
cling to memories dear
Conjure remembrances of good times
For even in the season of death
we must not lay to rest the legacies of those who walked among us.
The leaves are falling now
We watch for when light brings an end to her song.