The crumbling husk of a little brown spider
chases after a swatted fly.
Not for a meal to replenish his brittle figure,
but because he envies such a glorious death.
This day is not for the covetous,
nor for the weaver. That eight fingered hand.
This is a day marked for interment by rain.
Both to be washed in Gaea's reshaping womb.

If God made dirt, and dirt don't hurt,
then why do we feed it the dead?
Whether mogul, scholar, radical, or drifter-
in soil we are stripped of semblance and class.
Man, beast, lain down as equals - offerings
to a hungry celestial wanderer.
The soaring nomad, mindlessly migrating.
Circling an eye of fire. Star sailing.

Ashes and dust. Blood and bone.
Thought and memory. Feeling and dream.
Our lives are poured into a basin of stone,
from a pitcher containing the constellations.
Every drop, a cosmic reflection
tethered by a silver cord to the present.
The perspective of heroes and house flies
is separated only by sensation.