Monday Poem



I’m afraid
I don’t understand
the death part of life
although at my age
you might think I might,
and not necessarily
the last death-part
but the everyday bits of it
that constantly intrude
The only thing I can think
to make sense of it
is that its shadow
over each tenderness
makes each tenderness
more rich and poignant,
as if tenderness were
the only point of light
in this camera obscura,
which is the room
in which we spend lives
netting such points
like children
in a dark field in summer
collecting fireflies

by Jim Culleny