you didn’t want to die
while brushing your teeth
or folding a sweater, or while
watching a Yankees game on TV
or in your sleep.
You said you wanted
to know you were dying,
to not just drop
while pruning the azaleas
or feeding the city’s poor.
You wanted time to lean
into your departure, to feel
death’s tide rising within you,
the soul nudging the next world,
fluttering God’s curtains, his words
filling your mouth. You wanted
the deep sweetness of evening
to lay about you like a garden
closing into twilight, and you,
full of gratitude. You wanted
to feel God’s hand on your forehead,
his breath, all incense and orange
and clover in a far field growing close
about you like the softest blanket
you’d ever known—and you, birthed like a baby
in those soft folds.