Earth continues her unerring turn,
sun persists on his unending reel;
in dark shadows beneath, roots twist & rot
among thriving baby grass grubs.
Two corpses lie apart, buried where
once mouths gave
resuscitation to tired breaths of demand;
yet all must be forgiven,
given over, spaded, sometimes cloven,
as compost grows rich on death.
Nearby this garden is owl’s large nest
perched careful in tallest, grand fir tree –
no one has ever climbed so high,
but all can hear soft
hooting at night, all rest
sighing under swift invisible wings.
The world is separate yet contained together;
there may be whisperings of other suggestions
untrue, careless, debatable.
A timely wind has arrived from sea,
who knows from what creaking port,
new pollen carried briskly to embed in new sap.
What’s over is dead,
owl hums in stricken sleep,
soothing downy babies hungry for life.
Tomorrow they’ll find little bunnies
in warm burrows, where it is not forever safe,
and tear them limb from limb –
not in desperation but in utmost pleasure
with a wild delicacy, worshipful and resolute.