Today's poem is by Wally Swist

My Death

The pigeons fly up past windowpanes
to the rooftops, then beyond

the rooftops. Pigeons fly up, not doves.
The dirge of traffic grinds to a stop.

Someone tries to rub a cinder from an eye,
and so much sunlight streaks

the brownstones a comforting rust.
This is it, the perpetuity of it all,

as I look up at the sheer face
of these cliffs, suddenly bright with patches

of moss and wild with the shaggy white
petals of wood asters.

What I have become is this
emptiness that rests within the cusp

of an open semicircle
embraced by fronds of maidenhair.

Copyright © 2012 Wally Swist All rights reserved
from Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love
Southern Illinois University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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