Petrichor breeze atop notes of autumnal death chemistry,
the mummified solar body,
His dying light entombed in the press of shroud,
dismal rags in a shapeless gray trance—dust and pumice pore
space—
a resurrected breath—all-sweeping—
a silencing Luness grace,
burning silver sheen cool about His flesh
A trio of vultures,
anise and mute,
their bodies pinned in a pyramid—wings in
surrendered spread—
framing His vision—clear and precise—
as the serpent calmly shed low lying brush,
her spiraling spine in praise,
of the offering within His rays
E.A. O'Connell
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