Let Death Stalk
A poem is not a poem if it does not
have death on its mind. The joyful and uplifting
is for the witnessing of summits
yet behind that revelation,
a hushed spirit walks to the gravesite.
The light and bouncing sparrow
nests under the somber hood of the ebon crow.
Words grow from the ecstatic pain of creation,
they sing of love and splendor,
but let the drowned sailor have his walk-on part.
If you write of eternal things, then give death its due,
for one must be the garb for the other.
God in Her fortress of infinite love
let’s grim death stalk even the brightest muse,
She allows the mad fancy of romantic love
a place to die and be reborn again.
Then when a sweet poem hints also of death
it will tell of a greater knowing of love and life,
and not be just some piece of a lesser truth.
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