Morphosis

by Susan Maeder

They fall from the sky like stones
once the life has left them.
How is it that we are heavy
in death when in life
the slightest breeze can lift us,
catch our span and carry us?
 
Lost in the spires, there are birds
grown black with soot.
Their thoughts are rubble.
Claws and carnage.
 
One time, what seemed to be
fragrant, frivolous,
blossomed white in the sun,
then became beaked and feathered,
strange round eyes still opened
to the fire all around.
 
When night fell, nothing shone.
But the sky burst, and it seems
the children are falling,
heavy birds, and all the flowers
have turned to stone.
 

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