Apocryphal

I give my life to the wind; to the fossils, the spirit, and the earth. I leave my thoughts to the termites that linger beneath the sod, to the falcon in the firmament, and to the animals that mate on our planet floor. To my mother: a word and a prayer. I sew my being to her cosmos. I am the planet, the weed, the bird, the antelope, and the babe begotten by Mother Nature. To nature: I speak from naked thoughts — with a primal mind and a void conscience. With bare feet I tread — without cause or reason. For loneliness is futile when corn sprout and birds wait for harvest. The harvest is within: like tubers within the earth, like the mammoth decayed within the grave, like my heart shelved within my ribs. I leave the rib, the garment, and my lance to the vultures and the sparrows of the Amazon. To the crowd: I commit a dirge. I take the hymn, the flute, and the lyric from dead men, from monsters, from skirmished souls and demigods raving in isolation. To the bird, I commit a song; the seer, a revelation; to the eagle, the eyes of an owl, the Iguana, talons, and to my unborn child, a crown. To this voice, I write an echo; the heavens, I weave wonder; the gods, I commune with contrite words. And to poetry, I leave my soul.