Vultures stirring the cloud cauldron
Catharsis from the sky
Wheeling over the spot where a month ago
I found a small dead fox at the side of the road
How delicate it was
Rusty and small-pawed, fine colt legs
Maybe a child-fox, fox-child
Only lately slipped out into the world
Stepping the woods in a soft line,
a curved string trail weaving in widening arcs
Marking its passage at the roots of trees
The letters of a lost love, crumbled and faded
Or a note on the kitchen table saying, “I’ve gone out for milk.”
But this time I won’t come back.
I went back the next day, quietly stood and spoke a blessing
A shy and awkward protocol tuned to the flies’ humming dirge
Dropped cedar, red clover, yarrow to cover its soft sides
Left it for sky burial.
I’m in love with poetry lately, reading it, reading about it, trying to inhabit it, writing it. It’s an infatuation, a game, a practice of awareness, an awakening commitment. Something that I currently always want to post with disclaimers (“work in progress”). Why is that?