For Aunt Rhoda

 You've grown old, but in one way I'm older. 
When I talk of being dead your shoulders
Don't move down from there like it got colder.
Take comfort: it's not too hot or cold;
It's not at all like being sick or old,
Just darkness, peace, like nothing we've been told.
My deaths have been commas, odd ... pauses
In a winding sentence full of clauses.
Pardon me my claudicated causes,
They were not like what ends your sentence now.
The closing curtain falls and we must bow.
If you'd like to let go, I'll show you how. 

- May 2009