That Final Trip

A friend wanted to visit the bones of her people / And give their graves some weed-killer and tending / I was deputed to follow along: / Cemeteries are dangerous places

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Like Candles When They Quietly Go Out

When we were young / A friend once showed me a passage in a book / In which the monks of a certain cloistered order / Were often blessed with wonderfully peaceful deaths / Like candles when they quietly go out

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When is a Man Ripe for Harvesting?

Sunflowers are easy enough – the petals turn brown /
And the base is yellow, or better yet /
When in the heat of summer birds and squirrels /
Present themselves in your garden as dinner guests

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Out Of Service

Thus saith the comma-less yellow plastic bags
Fitted to the gasoline pumps of the nation
Where men are free from fuel and punctuation…

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Memento Mori

Death is such a freeing thing, isn’t it? Not in the sense that probably most people would take that rhetorical question, but in a rather convoluted and ultimately simple sense. Death is the only thing that can put the proper perspective on life, like how C.S. Lewis tells us that time is only the lens through which we see eternity.

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