It’s a strange thing, to follow after,
To be behind someone else’s arc,
Take up threads of human disaster
And weave them still forward in the dark.
And what are you looking for after death?
You know the silence circles thought and stone.
Inside and outside, quieter than breath,
You search on top of his blanketed bones.
You don’t really know what you’re looking for,
Or how you’ll find it and whether it’s fake.
You’re just building a nest beneath the porch floor
Like the house wren perched on the red-handled rake.
You’ve been at it so long that you don’t even know
When the nest will be finished so you can lay down.
You keep finding leaf bits where trees used to grow,
And feathers that you can weave into a crown.
Behind you are hatchlings chasing your arc,
Unaware that you’ll descend up ahead,
That they’ll chase your path like winnowing sparks,
Build their own nests, pulling life from the dead.
Life came first, and death followed after.
That’s been the way since the beginning.
Now death leads while we’re in the rafters,
Building our nests while Christ is grinning.