The Bird

I anoint a dead bird with holy water
from the memorial garden at the church where I grew up.
Weightless as it is lifeless, it knows not that I drape it with flowers
And say a prayer. I light a candle,
and beseech its spirit to bless other realms with its flight,
Continuing to and transcending its Highest Good.

Yellow is my favorite color, even on its still, soft feathers.

Fall
Means nothing here, in the heat of lingering summer.

Hell
Means nothing here, in tragedy upon tragedy –
Never a calm moment to catch one’s breath.

Death
Means nothing here, in the garden of the church
That doesn’t preach of heaven.

We do not die. We learn
what lessons we came here for.
We reach the Highest Good
We can possibly achieve
And then, we fly
To the next adventure, leaving our bodies
Cold on the path to the front door,
So that other beings can anoint them
With holy water
And prayers
For a Highest Good
That is so much more.

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