#393
Death
I don't want to die in the Springtime,
I don't want to leave in the Fall,
I don't want to exit in Summer;
I'd prefer not to exit at all.
But I will go gentle in Winter
If the snow's scattered deep all around;
I'll go mostly gentle in Winter,
Into that good night and the ground.
#206
Judgment
I used to think, when Mama died,
And she was just past 75,
That 75 was a ripe old age
(Clichés then were all the rage),
To minds so young and shallow;
God indeed might call them fallow.
Acceptable,
I cried.
Now that I'm near 75
And find myself still up, alive,
Regarding age, King Lear was right:
Ripeness is all; death is a blight.
While Thomas knew the use of rage,
I fooled myself at my mother's grave.
My shallow mind:
Unripe, unkind.
