Death in the Night

(A poem about my Grandfather)

Death comes calling softly in the night,
As it will for us all, so sleep tight.
Somewhere in New Haven there stands a tortured soul,
Who was awake through all the night long,
Questioning the robins sweet song.

Is life worth living he had whimpered in bed,
Tomorrow events he did dread.
His tears are real and acrid and not terse.
The man was not his father,
he was grander than that.
He’d brushed off death before;
He had style and grace,
He was a true aristocrat.

He had been lean and muscular and quit robust.
He left the other carpenters in the dust.
His hair was jet black, combed over his head.
He was a fine figure of a man in his prime.
But he had grown old and weary,
Even so,
life was still sublime.

He was the man I wanted to be when I grew up,
And he drank the brew of a knowledgeable cup.
He knew math and science and farming and many great things.
Being kind and gentle and sweet were his trademarks you see,
And he talked of the bible and being set free.

But now the hour lay before us as the sun climbed the sky.
It was a time of great sorrow and in the night it had been his time to die.
And somewhere in New Haven stands a beleaguered soul.
The coffin was set and the clothing fixed just right.
And the flowers had the beauty of a starburst at night.

And the tears were real and acrid and not terse,
And the pastor read softly from the bible his favorite verse.
A winged hawk circled passively in the sky up above.
And the mourners stood silently in black dresses and white glove.
It was to heaven he was going simply because of God’s love.

And somewhere in New Haven stands a tortured soul,
The loss will be tempered in 100 years or so,
And the day passes slowly as I stand by the grave.
Death comes calling softly in the night,
As it will for us all . . .
so I say dear Grandfather . . . I love you,
sleep tight.