Death is a fallow field

memory what grows there, thin and fragile-stalked

fragrant as basil

a cacophony of birds

I can taste their songs

honey on the tongue

Glen told me once

perhaps on a boat floating down

an ancient river      one of so many

we rode together

that death was a killing field

Nothing grows there, he said

 

But I have seen the leaves sway

beneath the Lahaina banyan

and maybe it will live

Perhaps the fire ignited

a phoenix heart

nestled among a thousand trunks

the igneous gold of survival

where fire becomes wings

and I can fly to you

on bright feathers.

 

Britt, you told me,

I am leaving.

Welcome death for me

it is my friend.

Non, I answer:

Le mort n’est pas notre ami.

The banyan tree nods

its many naked, seared heads

and the fallow field of death

is lightly furred with green