“You are dust and to dust you shall return,”
but first my duty was to help you along
lying as you were in the corner of the coop
your feathers still,
your body hushed & crumpled
in the dry heat of late August
I believed you gone
but then you cried as I went to lift your broken body.
How frail and finished you were–
no Samaritan could save you
as death lingered patiently in our midst.
So what could you call it, other than mercy
to offer succor to one of God’s designs in its time of trial?
Could it be anything but grace,
to lift the shovel and strike without hesitation;
sever you from your suffering and usher in peace?