sliding silently into the room
and plucks the essence
of those we love,
leaving only the shell,
yes, when Death comes,
people are kind.
They speak soft words,
like mourning doves.
They coo and they huddle,
in flocks, for comfort.
We dress our loved one
in the finest of robes.
The room is aromatic
with flowers.
We keep a candle lit,
and music always
playing.
We tell stories.
We remember.
We laugh and we cry.
When Death comes,
it reminds us
that we are
alive.
It tells us
how precious
and finite
this life is.
We are burying
this one man,
but our lives, too,
are slowly
slipping
away.
The sun has come out
to light
this pilgrim's path.
His dog looks at us
with sad eyes,
for her loved one
is gone.
We stand
respectfully silent,
as his widow weeps.
We dip our heads
as the bagpipes play
for the fallen soldier
beside his open grave.
But we must not forget
to lift our eyes
up and beyond,
to the hills,
to the wild blue heavens,
to track the flight
of an eagle
soaring Homeward,
remembering that,
while we still have breath,
all of this beauty
is ours,
each day
a new gift
to be opened.
Our lives
- our lives! -
are always
and only
on loan.
