Member Poem

The Seasons of Death
 
When she grows old
& minutes between words
become too hard to bear,
he finds a place for her.
 
She textures the hours
with patterns from within,
weaves a curtain out of time
& hangs it her eyes.
 
She knows the moment
he dies, and why,
as she does the rhythms
of tree rings, sand and fog,
 
the way a man thinks
when there is nothing left
but the gun in his hand,
cool and black enough
 
to feed the shadows.
She sends bright music
to aid his passage though
the seasons of death.
 
When he returns, he’ll lift
the hazy fabric from her eyes,
&  wheel her to the window,
that she may see the sky.
 
-Marge Simon