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Epic   Fantasy   Friend   Funny   Love   Main   Nature   Other   Sorrow

What is Death?

You awaken me, beloved,
your pianist’s fingers
on the wall and floor and chair.
Love unfurls or voices herself
as memories of the music you’d share,
of a master alone on stage
about 45 or 50 years of age.
This memory-worn, love unfurled,
wondrous mathematical patterns
like a first love ever fresh and green
and the profound pauses between
the notes: this was, is You in the world;
this was, is You not of the world.
You shed the cumbersome, confining body
and now your music glows as the little stone
at my door, your music the glittering snow.
The stage on which you play is each day,
each passerby a heartfelt note you play.
What is death except You unconfined,
except love of a finer, fiercer kind?

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One Comment

  1. “What is death except You unconfined,
    except love of a finer, fiercer kind?”
    I couldn’t have said it better.

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