I want to die in Autumn with my knees
pulled up to my chin and fallen leaves
crisp among the fading grass
as night falls and constellations wax
and the air grows cold; outside, wind slacks
and fades, and people pass
outside, unaware of the ending. Surprised,
maybe, of the way it ends, my life,
I grieve, of course, and mark
the time to the minute. They
have their lives; they can choose to say
what they will, but dark
is the ending, dark and cold and stale.
There is light, too, pale
gleams from distant points, and sounds
of music (music! for all love) around
and about and inside and out
and joyful shouting and helpful hands.
The end is the beginning, and stands,
not separate, but entwined, routed
between the knowing and the unknowing
signs, that long tunnel leading
from water into air.
I’ll arrive, knees bent, crying loud,
fearful and joyful and tearful and
hopeful and light of heart, where
knowing and unknowing
and becoming are one.