Yesterday the coroner came to my neighbors house and took her away. It got me to thinking. I've lived here on this street since 2009 and in that time every house except mine has had someone die.
So I wrote the poem this morning as I thought of the empty house next door and wondered what it all means.
A condition which is identified by the distinctive and fearsome reality of mortality is best understood in spiritual terms. At least that is the opinion I hold this morning and the one I have held much of my life.
A Misunderstanding Between Friends
Mortality is the wolf dogging our steps from birth
becoming hungrier as the load becomes heavy
and the bones begin to resist,
and the legs are no longer able to dance
and from the heart comes groaning
instead of song.
Mortality is life's instructor,
it's daily inspiration
and in the end the wolf is a good old dog
that always was a friend. (I changed the last line a little)
Death is a perennial topic of poets, philosophers and artists. Allen Ginsberg sings "Father Death Blues".