Whispers

I didn’t need to look down at my hands stained red, 

Covered in the choice to interfere, 

I felt the warmth. 

Evidence that it was too late, 

I was too late. 

The path had already been chosen.

Sometimes there’s nothing pretty about death, 

Except the flowers that cover it up 

& the skies that wash it away. 

I carried her to her resting spot, 

and asked of the basil,

and the Goji berry,

and the flowers of the garden. 

Together we offered her body to the Earth.  

I was a human, 

mad at a cat.

Sad for a bunny. 

& as I walked away, 

A snake made her way through the tall grass, 

A body in need. 

 Bringing with her whispers from the Great Mystery.