Death is an invitation;
it's a cycle that
makes a saint
from a snake,
though the venom still drips
from those pearly whites.

like the snow in a Michigan spring,
do we persist -
do we thaw,
or do we melt?

The apex of meaning
is found in the sweet of honey -
not the pursuit
of righteous gates;

like the green teasing from under the white,
there's always something more.