When one of us

shuffles off this mortal coil,
gives up the ghost,
crosses over,

breathes one’s last,
heads for the last roundup,
joins the choir invisible,

it startles the rest of us,
forces us to pause as
mourning sets in.

Nothing to be done
but remember,
to hold, if we can,

other beloveds close,
because they, too,
we, too,

will similarly slip away
one day, though we
cannot imagine

existence without
the ones who make us
us.

In the meantime,
behold the transitory
flowers, the bush lupine

overlooking the sea,
the wild iris unfurled
and purpled,

the lush pink rhodies,
their frilly skirts already
drooping.

Doesn’t make them
any less lovely
in their momentary

existence. In fact,
we realize with each
passing season,

it makes them
all the more
exquisite.