There was a season of the dying, not long ago
underneath my family and neighborhood tree—
So many friends and family members dying, I
could have had filled a box with their photographs, or a picture book
Nothing could be done, or changed.
Birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, funerals,
an eclipse,
it’s all in some, in some kind of order,
faint but certain.
Then the flesh gets buried and forgotten, on
top of so many others: no one can see the bottom…, perhaps it’s better that
way, we’re all just rotting!
#3368 (7-4-2012)
