November 20, 2007 (I was 63)
Is it the command over another’s decline
that makes one age? It seems so.
Deciding what is to be discarded,
what was written that will never be read,
what in the closet will never be worn;
it makes one more than the specter of death.
I have discarded wardrobes of the soul,
eliminated expressions to a savable few.
The Grim Reaper is a heartless editor,
humility a byproduct of playing that role.
Where is the repository of life?
How careless of any Grand Design
to leave it to those left behind,
to one who may have read Sound and Sense
but survived only through expedience.
No comments:
Post a Comment