OLD WOMEN AND DEATH

I marvel at these old women who speak of death
fearlessly and ever so matter of factly as if,
as if talking of sweet potatoes or grandkids.

I am not there yet, still too much of this life; wrapped
in desires bold and silly – to write a poem that breaks your heart,
to feel again the passion red of a cardinal on the wing,
to walk along foreign shores once more.

What gifted wisdom do these well-lived women own?
What secret worlds have they conquered? I ask but
they never tell, as if to do so would violate some
sacred trust, some benevolent bargain they have made.

These elder beauties remind me of a stand of graceful aspens
– soft, light, pale, pliable possessing remarkable resilience
and freedom from splintering. And every so often, one of them
looks me dead in the eye, and whispers

Pure as a conch shell’s song, “So what can you add
to death’s conversation, my dear?”