The Crocus triumphantly
bursts free from the frozen ground.
Embracing the sun,
she opens herself
in all her unashamed
for all the world’s amazement
Spring, she has arrived.
And the sun.
And the warmth.
And the earth.
Listen to the quiet
Somewhere – someone is listening to the sad, soft sounds of death.
Life with all it’s ridiculous pressures
And scattered pleasures
Life with it’s constant demand and waste of time.
What of time?
You don’t hurry to death
You just arrive there – and it’s quiet!
Where are all those things
You worried about, important things?
Bills, papers, taxes . . .
They stay right where you left them.
The children whose paths you watched over all those years?
They stay but they go on.
They are what you really
Hate to leave, but they go on . . .
Until the soft, quiet sounds whisper,
Welcome to ‘death.’
Rosemary Mathews —
Footnote: You cannot possibly qualify as a poet until you write about ‘death.’
From a cardboard box my brother found in our mother’s garage in 2008 and brought to me. Endless pages of poetry, tapped out on an ancient Remington typewriter, stained with coffee and yellowed with time – pages that could have easily gone unread.
C. M. Turner