A pair of poems ...

When I Am Old

When I am old and cannot dance,
bring me my drum that I might
tap a beat.
Carry me to beneath a tree,
woods all around and
listen with me
to Earth’s soft sounds,
dog at my feet
and quiet mushrooms witnessing.
Here we’ll call death to our laps
and soothe all fears,
letting what must,
throb its last.

Barbara Wolf (2006)


It's Some Job

It’s some job
to prepare for death.
All the papers to sign,
last words to write.
All the feelings of years
to be legally codified
so that the family will
waltz right through
the many first calls:
the picking-up of the body
by the mortuary guy,
Social Security, the bank,
friends and family to notify,
the care of the precious dog.
Then there’s the tossing of the ashes
on the water—or perhaps they’d prefer
a ceremony in the garden
beneath a tree.
Someone could bring a guitar.
After all the food is eaten,
the kitchen cleaned
and everyone has gathered pans and coats and left
the house will be quiet.
There will be no one
sitting at the window
gazing at the bare maple tree
against the changing evening sky,
or watching the busy crows.
Silence will take up residence
throughout the darkening house
and there will be no one
to hear the mouse.

Barbara Wolf (2006)