On My Coming Death
Inspired by John Keats’ “When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be”
When I have fears that I may cease to be–
strange ghostly pests which eat
at me but never fill
their phantom stomachs–
I lie still and feel the world turn
beneath my bare feet,
let my toes curl
into the wet earth
as my roots sink below.
Have you ever wondered
what roses think when they die?
Do they cry when plucked
or are content to have lived?
Fears do not exist
for them, I think.
I cannot know
with certainty. I am a weed
clinging to life
and to fears.
That is unavoidable.
Roses are beyond me now,
their waxen petals but a dream
I don’t know how to achieve.
I do know that as a child
I loved dandelions
and sticking them in my hair
like golden crowns.
Maybe I am a dandelion,
at once flower and pest.
So if I am I say:
Cease these weed-like worries
of expansion and survival.
To look to the sky
and feel the sun on your face,
that feeding of the soul,
is to truly be alive.
Be still and feel the world
beneath your feet.
