Rite of Passage

you ask me
to carry you
to the pyre,
to burn
bury
or leave you
unspurned,
to be devoured
by the elements
that design
both life
and death.

but how do I
perform
the last rites
of a seed,
which
in its falling
to its deathbed,
explodes into life?

when a hush
between seasons
is breached by
a noiseless seed-burst,
holding within
its failed shell,
forests and deserts of yore,
cracked dust still warm
upon a moistened shore,
springs and winters
yet unborn,
and all of life's
stardust confetti?

and so when you ask,
I stand frozen
upon my trembling feet,
eyes welling up
in disbelief,
for I know
all I can do
is hold this
unfathomable space,
where you and I
are but motifs
on a shimmering shroud,
walking together
in every step
of this rite of passage.

Transition

Digital art by Kirk Shannon

I sit
with sandbags
for wings,
a head
chained
to thoughts -
peering into
their own house
through
the keyhole
of a door
left open
to the winds
of change;
a heaviness
binds me
to my nest
now,
so I can nurse
my tired wings,
before I fly into
the glowing sun
of yet another day
to be lived,
on my terms.