For a young woman killed on the road near my home.
All things return to dust and carry in them
the memory of primordial stars,
Memory of the river pressed through concrete
in the power lines beside the road
Memory of the forest in the telephone pole.
In this world there is no is –
The wind becomes the hawk’s wings
that carries it from the telephone pole on updrafts
descending to the scrub oak shade.
The rattlesnake becomes the hawk
after the deadly dance.
Violence befits the moving world moving to its still end,
when all is well and violence becomes impassible peace.
Youth becomes renewed in the birth of every moment
and passes in the death of the moment
and all pass too soon
and all become memory.
Faded asphalt scarred by sun and wind
and travelers at the intersection
of time and timeless.
Immortality at the roadside memorial
where wind tossed grass and milkweed blossoms dance
in the syncopated draft of passing cars.
The intersection is crowned with a cross
for a daughter to soon in passing,
All things return to dust,
to the memory of stars that still dance in her eyes.
© Jedidiah Paschall