Though we appear to die, we do not.
Death is merely a change of address,
and loved ones wend their way
like turtles or salmon or whales—
by smell, by feel.
This mourning, we do for ourselves,
but when we raise our heads,
sniff the breeze, feel gaps of air
between our ribs—if we give them
space, the dead loved ones return.
Or maybe they never left.
We only think they did, when
like snakes, they shed their only
skins and belly-crawled to the next place—
which is the first place,
which, when we think about it,
is home.
•••
from Companion Spirit, 2013, Amherst Writers & Artists Press
Güd wrtr 
Jan, I love this poem. In fact, I read it out loud when I had Frank’s ashes placed at East Lawn (noting the author, of course!). My mother and sister were with me and both commented how much they liked it. It is beautiful. 💗
The poem I wrote this morning … related, I feel. Loved yours!
whirlpools
we’re all in the river
discrete little eddies
made of the same water
we swirl and bump
roll over rocks
splash into each other
merging for a while
dissolving into the whole
for as long as it takes
ride the river as one
sometimes it’s rough
other times serene
the flow of the river
breaks into eddies again
distinct
yet each baptized as water