REMEMBRANCE, DEATH AT HAND.

 TO THE POET, DEATH IS BUT THE MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE. 

Where the wild things grow and birdies call,

The smell of Spring; wafting though the town,

Pudgy footfalls across the hallway,

Pitterpattering on unsteady feet- she's walking.

The gentle sound of steps on stone,

She just turned twelve, the Little Dove,

She knows of life but not of death,

A pirate of the seas? Or the heir to the throne?

Sweet sixteen she is, the graceful little miss,

Be a lady, they said. 

The steady heartbeat as she runs up and down the track of sand

Athletic she is, nineteen going on twenty.

A marathon of a hundred, the end is at hand.

"Dear, dear girl, sunshine she was"

They say looking down on the gone woman's corpse

Oh so young, yet so old

No footprints on snow, for she has risen 

Above all kin,

A heart of gold.

HER FOOTSTEPS WILL FOLLOW THROUGH SPRING AND WINTER, THROUGH THE GRASS AND SNOW, UNTIL SHE IS PRESENT-

REBORN.

~Chenu 💓