Stumbling Upon Akeldama in Winter

Empty lot: cursed
soil burned black
by the raging fires
of summer sun, parched
as a dead man’s lips. Yet

winter rains bring thick
skin of green, the moist
breath of grasses, the fluttering
heartbeat of insect wings,
and their echoing hymn:

Nothing dead must
stay that way.
Morning light brings
night’s decay.