Afterlife

Seven petals, seven seas,
seven words like moths
wet with night—
we share everything.

Obscured by the living rain,
leaves gather what we make
of the yellow bells at dawn—
the horizon rings us
plural again.

Seven clouds oblivious
to seven cathedrals of the sun—
we strike an accord,
you and me, with the scent
of orchid, shattered beauty
discovered in nearby nebulae.
We ravel together, every day ringing
in seven songs
without names.