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The wind might stop
in the autumn,
but the clouds continue moving
passing on the message

A cat may be gone,
dead, buried with its blue bowl,
but the robin continues to sing
in the next morning

That singing might appear
to us mean, not so loving …
but that is what is real.
That is what is the truth.

The teacher of truth,
the true emperor,
is oblivious.
Life goes on.

That is the life after death.
Robin lives after the cat.
Clouds move despite stilled wind.
Old entities have new lives.

If there is only one, one sound,
one Aum: Ekonkar,
Messages passed through currents
as life continues infinitiely

‘The Death of a Soldier’
Wallace Stevens
Life contracts and death is expected,
As in a season of autumn.
The soldier falls.

He does not become a three-days’ personage,
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.

Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops.

When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.

 

The Blue Bowl

Jane Kenyon

Like primitives we buried the cat
with his bowl. Bare-handed
we scraped sand and gravel
back into the hole.
                               They fell with a hiss
and thud on his side,
on his long red fur, the white feathers
between his toes, and his
long, not to say aquiline, nose.

We stood and brushed each other off.
There are sorrows keener than these.

Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
burbles from a dripping bush
like the neighbor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.

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