Confession struck by a thought of raisins,
where once was certain death.
Tired now, feeling sleepy.
The anvil both stuns and confuses
as it lingers in mid air.
You dance for death to come like rain.
Your sense of mortality not much a thought
in some dormant truth.
Amidst dank breath of morning dew,
Witness transition of a landscape.
Experience passage in an adirondack chair.
Feel more alive in winter as in it you will be.
Know you had lived then more vivaciously.
It is empowering enough to make you cry.