Finish

If a dove fell from heaven
graceful, yet dead, God would
command, in softest tones
the angels, dance to it's
resting place and burrow
softness there.

So as it's body, rejoicing
at peaceful goneness, descending
toward both earth and heaven,
could limply lay on the breast
of it's mother again, dreaming
youthful days.

The dove would linger white,
and small droves of rain,
warm and misty, could wash
it's down, even after death.

Oh, what an easy way to die;
embarking on gravity's time,
cushioned by God and white,
even after closed eyes.

I could learn, not to be afraid
of death.