Death’s seasons are dreary
For the dying and for those who keep vigil
They make the pulse slow, erratic
Like a pinion twitching in tar
Death’s seasons are always with us
We only see them
When it’s too late
Like the wandering Gaul
Chancing on an old washerwoman
Scrubbing out his shroud
Like the woman who understands
Why the ashen ones
Are singing outside her window
Death’s seasons are welcome
A monsoon washing away
The faded remains of last year’s harvest
A summer melting away the long frost
Freeing the frozen survivals
To thaw and decay and be free.
No comments:
Post a Comment