On my last day,
I find my wife, hold her close.
What a stunning way this fragile life
Clarifies what’s most important.
I call every family member,
Tell them I love them.
Some calls bring tears,
Others, confused, awkward laughter.
“What’s the matter with you?” my uncle asks
Everything I see is a miracle:
How the golden sunlight pours through the window;
How the leaves crunch under my sneakers;
Even how our dog barks then shits on the pavement.
All of creation buzzes, bursts with its bounty.
The sound, joy and fury of being alive.
But where is Death, his ancient shadow trailing behind?
When will his cold hand touch me?
Will he whisper in my ear before I go?
Or will I not have the chance to truly say good-bye?
Perhaps today is not the last;
Maybe tomorrow isn’t, either.
Yet, I treat it like it is.
When the pale moon rises in the night sky,
I conjure dreams when I sleep.
If I shall wake and be blessed by tomorrow,
Well, I’ll treat that as the last, too.
