Crumbs

Some say the purest death
is to be ravaged alive
by beasts —
a final communion with creation
and instinct.
I could give myself to the lions
as red men gave their flesh
with joy to birds of prey, a feast
laid high on offering altars of pine,
their bodies rising
bite by bite to fill
the mouth and longing arms
of god.
And if I should die on African soil
at the pawing of tigers or men,
I pray the ants will piggyback my
sun-pressed crumbs across each undulation
of the ancient and bare breasted earth
and leave me soul to soil,
to nurse the hungry wild
and mingle with the stars.

NOTE: Artist, Writer, Wanderer, Introvert, Philosophical Rambler, Teacher, Worldwide Art Retreat Leader at wildhairadventures.com with LauraMcRaeHitchcock.com and pamgoodewrites.com