this body,
merely the cleft of the rock,
where the wind stops to sleep
on the long journey back to god.

returning,
what we do at our best,
in spite of and because of...
the footfalls of angels,

the beat of our hearts.
the grinding of our souls,
the stranger builds a fire.
and starts a soup,

with the wings of bats and owls,
whistling up clouds that bathe in moonlight.
the dew soft falls as childrens' prayers,
on the webbed ears of god,

hanging from that same rock!
and the wind embraces
that which cannot remain,
which never was...

and always will be,
the scar and the bruise!

Eric Cockrell

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-body-always-will-be/