Fallen Mummer on Brookfield Marsh
If I die, this is the way it should be:
surrounded by those I love, who love me.
Not wandering lost among the ice floes
like a hunter, stumbling as the storm grows
stronger. Not adrift in the Labrador,
on a wayward schooner, hull ripped, sails torn
by iceberg caprice. But warm; attended
by a sainted entourage, befriended
and familial; comforted by Yuletide
rhymes and songs; in kindness wrapped and quilted.
The wind flutters our veils like angel wings.
This starry sky deep consolation brings.
Away your tears, for I die not alone;
but stay till death’s sled comes to whisk me home.