Apocryphal


I give my life to the wind; to 
the fossils, the spirit, and the earth.

I leave my thoughts to the termites that
linger beneath the sod, to the falcon in the
firmament, and to the animals that mate on
our planet floor.  

To my mother: a word and a prayer. 
I sew my being to her cosmos.

I am the planet, the weed, the bird, the
antelope, and the babe begotten by
Mother Nature.

To nature: I speak from naked thoughts — with 
a primal mind and a void conscience.  With
bare feet I tread — without cause or reason. 

For loneliness is futile when corn sprout and
birds wait for harvest.

The harvest is within: like tubers within the
earth, like the mammoth decayed within the 
grave, like my heart shelved within my ribs.

I leave the rib, the garment, and my lance to 
the vultures and the sparrows of the Amazon.

To the crowd: I commit a dirge.

I take the hymn, the flute, and the lyric from
dead men, from monsters, from skirmished souls and 
demigods raving in isolation.

To the bird, I commit a song; the seer, a
revelation; to the eagle, the eyes of an owl, the
Iguana, talons, and to my unborn child, a crown.

To the voice, I write an echo; the heavens, I
weave wonder; the gods, I commune with
contrite words.

And to poetry, I leave my soul.