We stood on hallowed ground to tell our story, to share our hearts —
and now nature takes over
scoops its soul from its bosom
twisting and writhing and churning.
Our mother is changing.
She is turning inward and
pressing her cold hand to a weak and wheezy chest,
serving her greater purpose to live and to die and to procreate,
to feed the mouth that gapes before her —
the maw of life.
She becomes the void.
Black as she began.
She is reaped as she was sown,
plucked from damp, cold soil free from sunlight.
We will retell the same story
sometimes with such poetic symmetry
that it rivals our true nature.
And as the piles of unkept mess grow,
our carefully ordered life becomes a nest.
Our breath turns thick and heavy as it mixes with air
And we gasp to remind ourselves,
This too shall pass.