My grandmother died today.

My mother called to say,
"She passed away."
I thought about the poetry of that -
a wisp of smoke,
a dandelion in the breeze.

Death is as constant and relentless
as life.
Whether it be living or dying
it is unending
and unforgiving.
The one thing left
that we haven't managed
to
cheat.

We are not immortal.

Today death collected its due
and they took her flesh
to the furnace
by wagon.
Where she became once again
what man is born from
and hopelessly destined to
return.

In the passing I
solemnly nod to her memory
and say,
"Soon so too shall I,
soon so too shall
I."