Death

I stand in silent anticipation

as an old friend drives up my door.

He has come for yet another visit--

I swear he drops by more often than before.

He has never yet arrived quite unannounced,

but he'd always give a very short notice.

Yet perhaps no heads up is advance enough

for someone's visit such as his.

There are always more things to be done,

more preparations to look after;

And every time that he leaves,

there are countless details I wish I did better.

So with every goodbye he utters

every time he steps out of my place,

I would make amends on my planner

so as to receive him next time with more grace.

It's been eight months since Death first knocked at my door,

since I first rehearsed and prepared for his return.

But no matter how much I plan my worded greetings,

every time he comes around,

I could only offer yielding silence.