Transcendence

Death is but a passing scene
You turn over and you do it again.

The ancient rite of pyre
the night,
the wind
to suspire;
billowing transcendence.

On the ocean spray
in the opaline,
green,
blue
and red yellow wave
the mad bubbles dance
to reach up and to hold
the honey gold
light.
.........................................

[Light and life he becomes;
the weary work of days tossed
aside like the crackling of orange red oak leaves he'd raked.]

To the memory of Scott McMaster