The crow's hoarse shofar drowns
the dancing trill of songbirds.
"Death. Death. Death," it warns
by the muted glow
of a cloud-cast dawn.
There is a special providence in
the fall of a sparrow
the uplifted ends of green leaves
a blush of rainbow
a whirling storm of apple blossoms.
One, two, ten, fifty -
fifty souls fall to earth
and rise again
crying "Kyrie Elaison!"
Where do flowers go
when they die?
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
"The Lord be with you."
And also with you.
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