December 11th

The silent clicks and trickles of winter water wash over the dead ewe
sending her bones down stream as the weight of her flesh is dissolved  
So many bodies are tangled in the dead wood, silted up in dams
bones stuck in the soft mud of the pool sinking to the middle of the earth

I am slow this morning, heavy with sorrow, still with the air and trees
confused by the walls of conditioning and the patterns that shape my life
gasping for a way out

Gathering bare bones of my self 
daughter, mother, grandmother
my slimy bones are not ready  
I am not ready 
I will come back for them

I will die and the water will take me back to the earth 
I will not go in a box, leave me naked by the stream
it will only take a few weeks 
Then come back and gather my bones
they will be scattered by this living place across the fields