Today, the weather is death


Last week, it clouded over
and yesterday was rainy.

It is cold, and I wonder,
wonder if the silence will bring snow.
But the branches outside my window are bare,
and the sound of the rain has ceased.

The cloth of the white curtain is rough to the touch
As I brush it aside.

Ah, today, it is death.

It is like a blanket
That hovers over our sleeping forms, and drops
To cover us, so very gently.
But we remain asleep,
unknowing of its presence.

It is quiet, and we close our eyes.
It is warm as it envelops us,
But makes us feel the cold in our hands and in our feet;
Makes us curl our fingers and our toes
And wrap our arms around our knees,
Returning to how we were first conceived;
To the form that was given the breath of life.

And in this form it is taken away, as are we,
As we are
Wrapped and carried
Far, far away, out of existence.

And we are left with today.

Today, the weather is death.

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