Embrace death in all that is earthbound
as we rush ever closer to the brink.
Rejoice in the puckering stink
of leafy litter rotting on the ground,
remnants of autumn forests once crowned
in grand hues. Time demands of us, with a wink:
For out of this fetid corpse, spring is gowned
in verdant ensemble, its perfume a sweet drink
promising resurrection lest we think
we are under the spellbound
embrace of death.
©2018 Kenneth W. Arthur
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