Oh death, where is your sting? – I Corinthians 15:55
And death I think is no parenthesis – E.E. Cummings
..
We dress it in black. Night. Un
-known. We give it a scythe, a sickle,
the fickle heart of time. We deem it
grim, dig it
……………….(dirt nap)
graves,
laugh in its dark hooded
……………………….face.
We carve dates and dashes in mar
-bled stone, hoping they
might be more permanent
than our own
………..breath.
We speak to sky,
and ponder. Wonder after
after. Contemplate
the daily
(s)laughter
,
knowing all the while
that it is something (for) which
we can
not
………..(stop.)
..
Prompted by PAD, day 18.
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Ah. W mar the stone with our words. I cut through a cemetery on the way home, the stones from 1873 are barely legible.
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