In winter, the body knows
it is born to vanish.
Flesh turns to dirt, bones
wash white in March rains.
Life churns, returning
to wet layers of earth.
We – dead and dying, rotten and rotting –
look up to a sun far away and wait,
wait for the body and the solar body
to pull each other closer,
moisten skin with sweat,
green the dead husk of the world.
In spring, the body knows
it is born to sing.
Previously published in the Winter 2011 issue of The Main Street Rag Literary Journal.
© 2011 by Shawn Pavey. All rights reserved.