A day will come for me
not so soon, far away
I pray.  I cannot know
no one can but for some
who choose, for them I weep;
when all the lights I’ve known
soften and fade into what was
and shall not be again.
We know of what I write
it is death and death’s delight.

Delight? Why say so?
Say so for, as with all things,
death has the desire to be
what only it can be
and when I enter death’s abode
I will fulfill its promise
to usher me into hallowed halls
where what being is left to me
will be and if there be
no being left of me
then, it will whisper my name
through chill corridors
up drafty stairways
through cracks in the walls
out the broken windows
where fresh and lofting winds
lift the limbs of evergreen trees
flow over the rivers and seas
at last to summit the mountain’s top
where hangs a springtime moon –
full and lustrous, old and cold,
floating serene in the ocean of night.

Portland, Oregon – March 20, 2019

Vernal equinox