It comes for everyone, doesn’t it?
The inevitable end of all this, the flower petals
falling, the leaves falling, the day falling into night.
Here’s what I’ll remember, though:
Sitting in the garden on your last morning,
holding your hand, breathing,
watching the butterfly’s wing-tattered
through the holy colored brilliance to the pinkest bloom,
where it came to perfect stillness
and drank deeply of life
as though it would last forever.
And in that moment
everything I’d ever loved in you came clear—
this was the theme of your life, your constant song:
Choose joy, take it in, share its light.
And as it rose again, and your spirit, too,
illumined within and without,
you (I know it was) brushed against the poppy’s ghost
and I saw
I saw the tiny seeds
I should have expected this:
you always left me gifted