“It was a good death, he died
When he had to die, it is
Like so much else that is good . . .”
Let’s see. What is there to know?
What you can’t. Now that you know
That much, time to let it go.
I learn things these days the way
A child picks up shells or glass,
The old kind, thick and frost-scratched,
Soft-knapped by years in the waves
And the rocks, white as ice-pale
Wool, for the hoard on the shelf,
A thought that will glow in sun,
An odd bit, the days of use
For it all done. Like so much.
