A death and rebirth poem (Hexagrams 23 and 24)

Gestation, formation, blossoming, maturity, withering, dying, reformation as something or someone else ... So Life goes, in its endless circles and cycles.

I wrote this poem last August while visiting a dear friend's cabin in Shield Country -- my favourite land / water / sky in the world. There's nothing like a deep forest to remind us of Life's constant making, unmaking, and remaking ...

If I lie down in the grass,
kitty-corner to the forest edge
near your home, like a fraying
old blanket that's been loved,
sucked and teethed at the corners,
a prayer shawl chewed
with a predator's faith
in tearing flesh, a tassel torn
away and gnawed at
thread by musty thread and eventually
swallowed whole --
Will the seeds of future trees
nick the tatters of my
visceral self and weave
their seeking roots
among the gorged
and spent stamen of all
that I have been -- will I
be made anew, given
another chance, perhaps
as grass, or a lily
springing up
through your garden's
hem?