I Wrote These Words

To make dying easier, I wrote these

words. Not all together. Seldom when alone.

I assembled them without giving it thought. Eased

into the idea they may make a whole,

the way bones support a body, a breastplate

for a heart. It would be a testament

to something I knew little about. Meant

to be heard by each visitant alone

and by them understood belatedly.

Some might cry, some may sneer, how would I know.

I began with star, because of what it implies-

travel, distance too great to be understood,

a limit to the human world. It might make you

feel frightened or comforted or both.

And I provided a bier of wood

so your thoughts could travel back in time

yet remain where they were. Something fashioned

by a man, useful, of the woods and earth.

As an afterthought, I added a shroud.

You slept under a blanket the night before.

I wanted you to still feel warm.

A field. There must be a field. For your mind

and body to be well. There you could invent and think,

make rules and eliminate them, run without end

and walk with friends. It was a place to lie down and be content.

Once, someone from over a rise approached

and drew near and you felt their warmth.

There you stayed at length and found yourself a home.

When the field shifted and the light broke

into columns of running fir trees, you waved

your arm to us.