Since it always ends so soon and sadly,
since no one can stop its onslaught ever,
are we few insane to slow it gladly,
like captains gearing their crafts with clever
tacking, or doctors shocking limp bodies
with pulsing electrodes? Isn’t it smart
to hold her hand a little longer, wise
to softly stroke his thinning hair, touch hearts
with music and poetry so last sounds
we hear are close to heaven? Shouldn’t we
share our saddest longings, our deepest wounds,
past moments of laughter and even glee?
Was that you I saw running through Boulder-
White Cloud Mountains, sun kissing your shoulders?
Roger Armbrust
April 3, 2014
