Like
towering emerald
blades
mowed into bits
and pieces
scattered across
quilted earth,
we shall rise
and grow again—
piercing the veiled sky
to taste the sweetness
of anti gravitational
liberation.
Likewise
are we like leaves
of grass that yellow
and bronze
into woven carpet:
Lazarus others
shall follow—
as flowers die—
birthing seeded fruits
falling to fertile soils
cocooning
metamorphic justice
that Ahab savored
in empty bones
others would scorn.
We are similes
of dry bones
and winter trees—
circadian rhythms
rising to melodic freedom
scaling a treble clef
liberation.