When Death Comes

When death comes,
I will miss most:
sunrise,
and a new day
for a hopeful
fresh beginning;
standing at the
edge of the sea,
listening to
the cry
of the gulls
and the ocean's roar;
the way the mist
curls and spirals
through
the treetops
on the side
of Lone Cone,
and how it lifts
by late morning
to reveal
the day,
all the little boats
bobbing out
to sea;
the way the light
changes to
rich amber
in late afternoon,
and then sunset
arrives,
to dazzle
my eyes,
as all the little boats
come back home.

I'll miss birdsong
and herons,
picky-toeing
their way
along the
mudflats,
and eagles
circling overhead
at the beach,
surfing the
windcurrents
of  sky,
wheeling free
over
shining waters.

I'll miss
dogs,
and babies,
and old people,
all of whom
understand
the meaning
of life.
I'll miss
whales,
breaching
in Ahous Bay,
the sound
of their
spouting
like the
whispered voice
of God,
and the
everness
of the eternal waves,
in and out,
in and out,
as I look down
the miles of
sandy beach
stretching to
forever,
not a human
in sight.

I'll miss wolves,
their howls
in the forest
at night,
and the yipping
of their pups,
under a
full round
Grandmother Moon.

I'll miss stars
and the mystery
of the black spaces
in between,
and wondering
about the
other worlds
up there,
in this universe
of darkness,
that is just
waiting
to be
illuminated.

I'll miss rivers
that take
my heart along
on their journey
to the sea,
and mountains
and echoing canyons
that trap
the sun's warmth,
and waterfalls,
tumbling
down the slopes,
and rain,
its gentle mist
falling on
the grateful,
nodding blooms
like kisses.

I'll miss it all,
but will love
all the
remembering,
as I pass through
the portal
from life
to
whatever comes
after,
of the
thirty thousand days
or so,
that all of this
was mine.