Savasana

Once again, the field rehearses how to die.

Some of the grass turns golden first. Some

simply fades into brown. Just this morning,

I, too, lay in corpse pose, practicing

how to let myself be totally held by the earth

without striving, how to meet the day

without rushing off to do the next necessary

or beautiful thing. Soon, the grass will bend

or break, molder or disintegrate. Every year,

the same lesson in how to join

the darkness, how to be unmade, how quietly

we might lean into the uncertainty

of whatever comes next.

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer