{A Symphony of Dying: Prose Poem}

After Mary Oliver’s “In Provincetown, and Ohio, and Alabama

“Death taps his black wand and something vanishes.”

The bundles of rhododendron flowers fall through the tangle of branches where the lake water is cool and where, for a while, they are not alive but their petals are white-pink bright still.

The dragonfly, blue and small as an eye, flits along by my boat as his life flows past him. He is unaware, or – I don’t know! – at peace, as his short and shiny breath falls away.

Trees have fallen, tall and stubborn still, into the water and are now covered in algae, feast for the fish.

A leaf, brown and crinkled, and a bug, lay knotted in the tough fabric of the spider’s home.

“Death taps his black wand” and something grows.

“Death taps his black wand” and life overcomes.


{A Day in Town}

Today, I spent $43 on a gift,
a fidget spinner, two pins, one iron-on patch.
I also came home with the most precious of commodities:
four books, poetry and fiction.
Payed for with the swipe of a library card, and the smile of the
quiet-voiced, grey-haired woman behind the counter.

No exchange of money for this
exchange of —dare I say—