Death

Don’t you recognize me when I am the wind beneath your sails and the roots under your trees.

I saw you as an infant when I layered your knees with bones from myself, and then followed you as the stick that supported your old aching back.
Are you afraid of me even when you have spent all your life pretending I wasn’t there?
In the cold glare of snow and warm caress of mornings; in the flame on your kitchen stove as it flickered to life against the cold stench of metal.
Do I scare you with my eyes that see the universe and an ant, with arms that embrace you and the sun, with words that touch every inch of your little world?
I am but a color blue of the ocean and dew upon flower valleys at the breast of dawn.
Don’t you recognize me with marks of my touch on your skin as time visits your door or the creaking step of your foyer’s seventh step?
Don’t run from me aimlessly circling back to the start. Don’t hide from me shining a flashlight on your heart. Don’t whisper around me, words coming out as clear as the north star.
I am fact, just as you. Since you exist, I must too.
Death is but a caress of the wind, a wilt of a petal, and a crush of a leaf. The harsh word you shy away from mentioning to your young and your old - my harsh name - is as gentle as the fluff of evening clouds, tainted by the glow of the world around it.

“Don’t you recognize me? It’s time to come back now.”