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.

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