It comes for everyone, doesn’t it?
The inevitable end of all this, the flower petals
falling, the leaves falling, the day falling into night.
Here’s what I’ll remember, though:
Sitting in the garden on your last morning,
holding your hand, breathing as one,
till your head softly tipped,
your breath slowed,
death so gentle and
so gently deserved.
I kissed you and sat
still, soft tears falling,
watching the butterfly’s wing-tattered
through the holy-colored brilliance
to the pinkest bloom,
where it came to perfect stillness
and drank deeply of life
as thought it would last forever.
And in that moment,
everything I’d ever loved about you
was the theme of your life, your constant song:
Choose joy, drink it in, share its light.
And, as the butterfly rose again, and your spirit, too,
illumined within and without,
you (I know it was) brushed
against the poppy’s ghost,
and I saw
I saw the tiny seeds
spilling to the waiting earth.
I should have expected this:
You always left me
gifted and blessed.
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