The earth keeps the tap root of death
awake:

The flesh covering bones will rot,
or, if it does not, will remain
as stone relics
eventually
for antiquarians,
fragments of a city under a heap.

The flesh of leaves will descend into oblivion,
Blood filled limbs becoming clay,
Veins of branches clotting coldly.

Without a root in the earth
death's finality is our death,
like snowflakes on a river's current,
like birds' designs in the sky:

There is no resurrection where there is no earth.