December 17, 2010

Contemplatio Mortis

There is a day each year that will be carved
on my tombstone, printed in my obituary
the unknown bookend to my birthday
the future anniversary of my death.
A day that if we knew we would celebrate
each year, raise our wine, our beer to toast
to waking the next day until that year we didn’t.

3 comments:

Christine said...

Simple and beautiful. Such wonderful words.

one of Prometheus and Antigone's children said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
one of Prometheus and Antigone's children said...

whereas time's slip as if a notch or rachet along the slow turned teeth that shape memory like the the spinning wet clay each day
unfurls for us, what can be held in each of our moments, our smiles, our leans against the thinnest of skies, waits for the wind to pick something up so that we might see each of time's movements spied along the meniscus where our lips kiss inside each of our gears in the tides...


EJR


thanks again Dan, a nice Rumi-esque