Classic Poem

I’d pass it on the mission trail—
            half-decomposed, green burr-like eyes
beyond my thoughts or pity, tail
            curled into questions only flies
would answer, as they staked their claim
            to rotting tissue. Food for worms,
and mocked by summer’s honey flame,
            it had no choice but come to terms
with piecemeal dissolution. Those
            loud buzzes echoed in my ears
until it circled and then rose,
            converting me—some thirty years
since—into the lone passerby
            and witness, ever on my way
from daily service, like the sky
            itself on resurrection day.