More Snow.... (Will Fall)
E
Eric Cockrell
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this body has to die,
to decompose back into earth,
for this spirit to step free,
and remember who it 'is'...
we borrow urns for the journey,
but urns are not the journey.
and pots made of clay,
cannot hold oceans forever.
the dance of death,
smells of womb, and depth...
the hidden name,
sets paper walls ablaze.
the kiss of death's lips,
turns great trees toward winter.
leaving stains in the snow...
ah, but more snow will fall!
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