It takes a particular grace to pass on the first dawn of spring.
A gentle bow, a humble farewell,
to recede with the dying wave of winter,
to give space for the swelling of new life. We die as we have lived.
Heart, light as a feather.
and as Death arrives in the Living, what we thought we knew is cloaked in blankets of snow, dust, ash, the language of stories begins to fade, and the faces of our ancestors blur into one. They float out of the window into celestial realms, stroke hands with angels, spirits, clouds. Their limbs may grow into trees. Their breath whispers into caves. Their stories become rounder, and not a single spore remains unchanged. as Death arrives, here we stand surrounded by the orchestra of godly creation,
here we sit in seats carved by water and wind attuning to the pulse of ten million years. as Death arrives, the Living remember. how humbled we may be by the pulse of the rock, of the stars, how we borrow Life from sources long dead... Thank you, death, thank you grandfather. My life is a prayer now a dance in your honour. Weaving through infinite streams of grief and joy in laughter and tears - How terrible! How wonderful, that there is so much to mourn, so much to miss. And as grief pours forth, mothers, sons, siblings, are changed forever. The lyrics between relations soften.
Forgiveness is courted. We flirt with conditionless love. Nothing makes sense, like a rainbow
or a hailstorm. Let us marvel in death. Let the miracles come alive as we die..