Monday, May 29, 2017

Death

The way you describe Death
in that last poem
as a mysterious traveler
with no sense of direction,
counters everything I've ever thought
about the subject.

Perhaps the death of my Grandfather,
sudden and shocking,
or all of my childhood pets
playing now, on a giant open farm
near the moors of the Yorkshire countryside
as I was told:
they all go once Death meets them.

Most likely, though,
my mother's death
solidified the concept for me.
Her beautiful, bountiful, golden curls,
bouncing from her shoulders
like one of Charlie's Angels
as she walked hand in hand with Death
one afternoon down Hermosa Beach.

You see, to me, Death is lonely
and needs such company.
Death is an animal lover
and enjoys watching fields of dogs,
guinea pigs, birds, cats, mice, and still others
frolicking together.

Death needs grandfathers to teach
how to fish, hunt, and put together
a bicycle chain.

Death needs grandmothers to care,
filling their little farmhouse
with smells of German food,
baked breads, sweet rolls:
warm smells.

But, most importantly, Death needs
a beautiful companion,
such as my Mom,
to warm the bed on those
deathly cold, November nights.

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