death,
you curmudgeonly, old scoundrel.
Let’s talk!
wasn’t it your idea to stretch our
arms like green vines
towards the
sun?
to raise our wavy hair from
fleshy soil?
maybe you’re better known for your demolition
work than what you
build––
for stinking, rotten flesh, than
what you
grow.
in any case, we are your progeny,
marked from the beginning as your own;
our bodies keep the seasons of
your time.
all so beautifully imagined––
& as we imagine you,
so you are.
should we sketch you with a white,
forgiving beard & tired
eyes?
stalwart sandals or barefoot?
scythe broken, or lost
somewhere in the fields?
& our own dying...
such a production!
we have a lifetime to script the better part of it,
don’t we? to cast and mold
the leading character of our waking play.
so how will our hero die...?
what do you believe about your
self?
what is. you choose.
we ascend to the tops of our DNA towers to
dance for the universe
as we are.
we leap,
perhaps,
into another
universe or another
life.
what is. we choose.