I sat along the River End
in a field of young hyacinth.
I watched a murder of crows descend
below the cyprus labyrinth.

A heron built a nest along
the shrubs that lined the shore.
As it worked it sang a song
filled with mortal lore.

The ground beneath my body moved
from thunderclouds to mist.
My body stilled, my soul removed,
thoughts now ceasing to exist.

My soul, it rose, and it disclosed
the need for a flock to lead it home.
And as it did, the sun composed
a song on all the ways I'd grown.

Melodies sprinkled on the peaks
of mountains, hanging from a string.
Pulling the ravens by their beaks,
Ushering in a newfound spring.

The Puppeteer looked down with tears on cheek,
blindly gripping His marionette's string.
Water coursing down the creek,
His grasping now a stiffening cling.

His waterfall cascaded down
leading my soul towards the ground—

My breath began, I looked around,
and from outside, I heard a sound.

A robin's song
calling me along.

A welcome gift
for a soul unlost.