Once you have fallen down and rotted upon the earth
and dreamt your dreams
and picked yourself back up,
you cannot remain a skeleton.
The wind that blew through your ribs
to teach you its song
will only keep singing the same song,
and you have learned it already.
The ravens will not come back
because the have sated their hunger
for the dead.
Child of this earth,
the guardians give you a home now.
choose garments of color,
hum your song
and listen for the wind
when she wraps herself around you
on a late summer day.
She has secrets about being whole
as well as being dead.
We pass through a door
and as we return through another,
all the rest close.
It is the way of being mortal.
It is a good way,
for without song we cannot express.
Without song we cannot swell and beam,
shape and teach
what has come through us.
This time you will be different.
This time the terrain will be taken more carefully.
This time your ear will be attuned more keenly
to the authentic.