There was time when Death was quiet. People forgot to listen.
My grandparents were old and white haired. They did not hear death.
Do you glide along a tightrope ignoring demise?
There is a time when the thermometer spells daffodils.
When January is too warm and you wonder how the earth rotates
with global warming, with climate change.
Death rubs her hands and chuckles.
Wasn’t Death a man? Dude with a scythe.
My friend swung a long, sharp scythe in the late spring
to cut hay, rake it into piles, haul it to the barn
where all the handles were latches
of handmade wood and metal.
Cutting down, cutting out, cutting off.
Let’s cut out of here.
There was a time my mind was clear
as a dew drop on a cedar bow. When I saw
life as simple as a bluebell.