Death Tapped at My Window

In the midst of storm

A dark, heavy, rain-laden night

That bubbled up like tar from

A bright cool April,

Death tapped at my window.

-

Tap tap, he sounded,

But I only thought to hear

The rain upon the windowpane.

-

Tap tap, he rapped again,

But I only noticed flashes

And the crack of lightning.

-

The storm moved on.

I did not notice his tall form

Where it stood for

Just a moment

In the bright light of dawn

Before he faded with

The rain.

-

In the dusk of evening

A fresh, warm, golden twilight

That lingered on forever

At the end of pretty June,

Death hurried past outside.

-

Run run, he said (I think, to himself)

But I did not fear for me,

Because he was passing by.

-

Run run, he said again,

But I did not stop him,

Because he was in a rush.

-

The twilight moved on.

I lost track of his long shadow

Where it disappeared

In just a breath

Into the other gray shadows

Before he faded with

The light.

-

In the biting wind

A chill, dying, melancholy afternoon

That chased men from

The beginning of November,

Death passed me on the road.

-

Swish swish, went his robe,

But I feared to look,

In case he neared me.

-

Swish swish, went his robe again,

But I could only shiver,

As he passed me on the side.

-

The wind moved on.

I watched him stride away

As he moved along

With firm, long strides

Into my future

And though he disappeared,

I feared.

-

In the cold of dawn,

A freezing, stark, white morning

That froze the world’s rotation

In the middle of January,

Death knocked on my door.

-

Knock knock, he pounded,

But I hesitated,

Unsure if I was ready.

-

Knock knock, he tried again,

But I came slowly,

Feeling very young.

-

The dawn moved on.

I saw the light of day

As it came in to me

Like new life

That I began to understand

And so I reached to let

Him in.

-

Come in, I said,

And he smiled at me,

Because I understood.

-

Come in, I said again,

And let us have a drink

Before we go.

The Secluded Scholar (a sonnet)

The shadows on the wall grow long and dark

as golden afternoon begins to fade

and dwindle to a gray and wat’ry mark

that dampens now the joyous noise of day.

Do you remember, dearest, when you bade

me to fill up those shining afternoons

by making for my yellowed books a trade:

dust for air and twilight dark for bright noon?

Those lovely days have left us far too soon,

as treasured daytime bold creeps into night.

Oh, if your joyous love I could exhume,

the coming dusk would be no fearful sight!

I long for your bright laugh and golden looks,

for I am choked at night by dusty books.

Sleep

Sleep (sleep),  v or n :

An elusive tug on the corner of the mind. A slow warmth that creeps into the bones by way of fingers and toes. The goal of heavy quilts, soft blankets, hot cocoa. A child’s companion during a bedtime story; the soothing hum beneath low voices and murmured sounds. The gradual closing of the world to the eyes; the vision going all to glowing pink, and then to black. The slowing of the mind and hand. A film of cotton over the harsh, bold lines of the wakeful day. A slow gray mist that clouds the senses; alternatively, a heavy black weight that traps and smothers its victims. The passing of time and consciousness from the mind. The fog-dark stage for the colored lights of dreams; at other times, the shaded realm stalking fears and nightmares. Sweet relief from reality; a natural reset of perspective.  The quiet faith that one will wake tomorrow.