Old Year, Passing

Hanging Garden Tree

Tall Tree Trail

Meares Island

Tofino, B.C.

It's all nonsense, really.
We use lofty language,
we spout theories,
we orbit the ethereal
as if we actually know
where we go
when we die.

We hold to a 
positive perspective,
to avoid the fact
that we will 
eventually
be eaten by worms.

Is it effervescence or 
the turgid waters
of dementia
that sparks our hysteria-edged 
laughter?

Where is the exact
line of demarcation,
when one crosses over
from youth to age,
when life begins to jumble,
as if ordered by a miscreant?

(Shhhhh.
Don't tell us.
We don't really want
to know.)

A bottleneck of Boomers,
Zen-fresh from their 
way cool meditation,
is gathering near the portal
to another plane.

When it comes my turn,
just wrap me in burlap,
and sit me up
 in the crotch
of an old tree,
looking out to sea.

Let the winter wind
howl its song
of wildness
to serenade me,
when I finally
-finally!-
fly free.

Well, now! Laurie at Real Toads set us the task of writing a poem to the collected word prompts she set for us in 2012. I saw a few key words, and this poem just popped out of my head. I italicized the words we were given to use. Yikes. It scares me a little!