The wicked finality of life is almost more beautiful
than birth, the grace and forcefulness with which the body
unbinds from the constraints of humanity each

day, slowing more and more, the measured
breaking down of flesh and ego, a thinning of the
veil that shrouds the Spirit from its home,

until one day you see it in their eyes,
you know they have seen Home
and they are ready
and you are ready
to let go as they have

Oh, the cruel and terrible dichotomy of grief, to hold your
beloved, to never want to let loose your
connection, yet to look death in the face and know surrender
is the only promise for true salvation and peace for both.

Like walking outside on a brisk fall day,
naked as trees, wearing only the cloak of nature’s
chill, allow tears to flow, in colorful waves as leaves
fall, purposefully and with finality, and hope,
rotting on the ground through the
dormancy of winter, only to regenerate new
life when the sun once again warms the skin.

Your liberation, it may not come until years later,
when you can finally take comfort in the distance
between suffering and release, when you can

set up your altar and place your heart there to be
cleansed and unburdened, light the candle, assemble the
stones and blessings in the order that sets things right for your

spirit to grieve, and then leave it there exposed, to be
encased in love and peace until it is, eventually, your
time to also begin the journey Home.