When I die
I will cry all night.
I don’t want to leave.
Who will read to my grandchildren?
Take care of the flowers
I treasure?
They will not live without me.
One season will pass
and one by one they’ll be gone.
Gardens die without their gardeners.
Where will my books go?
They are part of my memory,
holding notes of things
I thought about.
Triumphs of childhood.
First time Jacki stayed upright
on his two wheeler,
Michael went potty by himself.
Their comments on snow,
watching the world go by.
Wisdom words I cherished
and kept for poems.
I will cry all night
because death is a wicked place,
that deserves no place.
Why must life disappear
and death hang around?
I will cry all night
and have to listen to,
He’s dead. He’s gone.
But if I’m not,
how will they know?
No one hears a dead man cry,
no matter,
how hard they listen.