Is life merely a succession
of a coffin and nails?
How many times do we kill
like a sharp frost
delicate vines?
Or
prune to the root
a heart's searching tendrils?
We murder with our lips.
We murder with our looks.
We take life by a silence.
We do not salute
one precious rose
but bow to bereft banks
who hold stock
of nothing of value.
A coffin and nails
soon becomes a cemetery.
'White washed tombs'
Jesus said.
Egyptian canopy jars
of putridness and decay.
We must preserve
vital organs
heart, liver and lungs
now.
Touch lepers with our hands,
pray over the sick,
espouse a monasterial life.
I, for one, do avow
instead of a coffin and nails-
A piano case and a waltz.
Won't you dance with me?
Enfolded
like a caterpillar rolled
in sunshine and a leaf
until the dance macabre is over
and our light, bright souls
like butterflies float away.


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