Death goes by, not stealthily
(As we are of thinking and it is yet maintained)
But with an easy grace, and bold,
With human bodies avoiding its path unknowingly:
Dodging to the left or hither, just blaming it on
A few loose pebbles in the street.
And as it gains the door
(Either the neighbor’s or theirs or hers)
It doesn’t drape black on the ground,
Nor does it shake the soil and corrupt the worms’ movement,
But comes in like a couth stranger, smiling pleasantly,
And nodding at the flowered windowsill.
Taking hold with smooth hands the destined one,
It leads them off, back to their origin,
And waves goodbye to them as it heads out,
Back, searching for the next soul that is homeward bound.

Notes

This one is obviously about death, and takes the attitude that when we die, we return to where we came from, which by my beliefs is God. With the line, “Either the neighbor’s or theirs or hers,” with respect to where Death goes, this is remarking on the common thought that we ourselves aren’t going to die soon, that death is something that happens to other people, not us.