age is suited
perfectly
to take the last of me –
a willing breath
wreaks of summertime
memories of all
everything
I came to find
pieces stitched together
let undone
who will notice
who will claim
mercies more than doubt
of days before
the end was known –
places dreamed about
who shall mourn
as nights grow long –
the pastures dressed
in snow
who will speak my name
aloud –
when the ground is
hard and cold

. . .