animals know the ways of the dove,
giving their lives to mysterious love,
producing what others want to consume
the circle of life: we want to honor it
the circle of life: we curse it

which is it, my love, which is it?

even sparrows know the way they must go
driven away from the storm and snow
with no anger in their hearts they depart
in order to come back to start again
for sunlight inspires their magnificence

songs sing into streams of bliss and woe
rivers carry them far into ocean coves
what love removes, love always returns
what love embraces, love will then spurn
fearless as the doves of the ethereal skies
who rush back down to the denser climes
never too high or too proud to now return
seeing what’s won is lost, to laugh, to cry.

burnt offerings

your mind only remembers inside its judgment,
its nay or its yea is a postscript to every thought
but your heart understands all is love regardless
where your feet have traveled upon this earth,
rooted in the soil even as they scurry along
day after day, week after week, years, and lives
you have walked in the forest of autumn times
who ever look forward to your annual return,
should you release these to annual offerings burned
these that bind your heavenward heart to ground
as crumbled leaves songs strange and rhythmic sound
beneath your feet they are willing to be swept along
ready to be buried as remains to earth and sky-song
feeding holy ground, the air, the love, every ocean.