Death Poem by Eric Cockrell

the shadow lurking
just outside my window;
faintly smelling like spring rain
remembered in the fall.

the first lips you kissed,
the first time you tasted
your own blood.
a good cigar, and
a shot of french brandy.

the film of time
covering the eyes.
taking away sharpness,
finding form in the vague
and near forgotten!

a Bible that smells
like damp newspapers;
shovelfuls of earth,
and an old Irish hymn.

and the weight of the undone
swings like a pendulum;
words never spoken,
almost touches, almost tears,
chances almost taken

and the fork in the road
i never took
the hoot of an owl.
water running over rocks.
pine needles carpet the ground
never walked on.

a shadow lurking
that knows my name!