Not now, deeply into the future,
preferably when I don’t know
that it’s coming,

lying on the yoga mat in, appropriately,
corpse pose after a gentle backyard session
on a summer day much like this one,

Delta breeze susurrating through the sycamore,
the distant call of crows, traffic sounds
transformed into surf shooshing into shore,

then, face to the sky, wearing the merest smile,
let me be lifted into mystery with no fuss or agony,
the simplest departure

among the tiny English daisies that sprout weekly
after mowing, even when I worry that they have
all been taken. There they are.

And there I was.