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 the voice, I write an echo; the heavens, I
weave wonder; the gods, I commune with
contrite words.
And to poetry, I leave my soul.