To this body
Death does as it should,
Consigns the shell
To the firewood
And sets the spirit free.

Close to the fire
the heat singes me.

I know it's only the prelude
to the fiery furnace
licking my skin with flaming tongues
reducing me to powdered ashes
disappearing and in no time fading
what was me but in an instant
dusts in urns and upon wall
and years after maybe one's
untimely rains of dusty memories.

What's not to love of this time of year, the breath of  summer in the south so fragrant and clear.
Blooming flowers blowing in the summer breeze, lifting a brisk scent of aroma so divine.
The honeysuckle growing wild  nurturing itself as it twists and turns through the cudzu vines.
The sights of the country never get old.
As I sit on my front porch, calming the evening, peering at the sunset of vibrant colors mixing both light and bold.
The darkness here carries no fear as the twinkling wings of the lightning bugs inspire a feeling of freedom as they blink rapidly to light the way..
The moon and the stars are ever so clear, in the darkest of nights it's like morning here.  
You never feel alone under the southern country sky,
You can always hear the sounds of the birds, the crickets , the frogs and faithful mag pie.
A peaceful encounter if you have never been, you should come here some day and you will see what I mean.
©kimmied1105

Listen more often
To the earth, rocks and grass
The roots of trees that go deep inside
And whisper of the past

Listen to the clouds rumble
Thunder and heave a sigh
As they speak to birds of creation
That pirouette in the sky

Listen to the whispers of seashells
The verses of waves in rhyme
That carry the songs of sailors
And hum the melodies of time

Listen more often
To the roses and the wind
Listen to the rain and rainbow
Listen to the soul of things

The vulture is a peaceful bird
She watches, circles patiently
Waiting for life to become death
So she can gather what she needs

The vulture does not maim or slay
And causes neither harm nor strife
She walks in the shadow of death
And so turns death back into life

Suggested by a Thought from Temporal Fugue

Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
And because they respect us, they wrestle back;
We shape them in order serviceable 1
And they refuse to be pinned as cliches’

We fling a needful verb against a noun
To make a thought complete, but then adverbs
And adjectives begin cluttering lines
And then we all must take a coffee break

Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
For every scrap of story, verse, or hymn


1 Cf. John Milton, “Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”