I have longed to write of the chickens
whose carcasses rot in fields which soon
will sprout new life from deep within the
womb of earth
Their feathers lolling listless among
furrows freshly turned to receive
the dead, the promise of new life
consumed, consuming -- life resuming

God, you led me here to taste
the stench of death at planting time
I, for whom the chickens will provide
a bearing onward into life
toward that place of my own death
and planting

I eat these offerings of earth
en route not to this field of
listless lifelessness
but toward another harvest of
the very essence of my soul shaped
carefully within your heart, O God
and blown across a dusty land
to seep into the loam of earth
the dewy fragrance of your breath
and bear forth freshness from
this musty place of scouring
cloudless skies and feathers festering --

now dancing on the wind