Death. Poem by Ann Beard

I cannot choose the season
nor the moment I may die
But with absolute contentment
I will find my fathers home.

I cannot bare the very thought,
of bidding you a last goodbye
as every part you knew of me,
turn’s cold as if to stone.

So my children be prepared
for me to shed this frail persona.
Weaknesses - like petals dipped
in flippancy of tone.

And I will join the changing seasons
Dappled shade - crisp winter sky
and hide in lines of poetry.
Words strung as beads,
or set in stone.