death.

a poem a day in the month of may

Today I was walking

in the ever-Springing woods

and thought to myself

I cannot wait for Autumn,

when all of this dies.

And I wondered then

if I’m just

terribly morbid,

looking forward

to the way the leaves

pass from life

to a steady death

later in the year.

I don’t understand

that death could be

beautiful and terrible,

and I ache for

everyone that death

has touched, including

myself and those I love.

Perhaps I am

just drawn to the liminality

of it, the complexity

that the pain mingles

with memories and care

and compels us toward

a thing we cannot fully 

understand in this life.

So, I stay connected

to Spring, letting her

speak to me of life,

of journeying,

of bloom and blossom,

of beginnings.

That is a thing I can hold.