Drumming

poem re: dying

If Emily is right

about hope's feathers

and its perch,

   the timeless night

is ours to weather  

while we're bound by time 

and earth.

So slow is this dying 

that there are always some

setting free soul's feathers, now sifting

 into barriers with their drifting;

I can climb them

for no reason, 

so I prefer to drum.

Drumbeats note the shedding

one by one, of timely hope,

honors each as they mark

how shortened is the rope;

experience accumulates

until we know the drill;

but I don't know 

where they've all gone,

  expect I never will.

My burden is the feathers

shed on their soul's way,

I'll make a set of costume wings

to wear on New Years Day;

I'll fill a million silky bags 

as pillows for the minds 

as they pass

through dark nights' 

 shifting hourglass;

  I'll add my solemn drumming 

as the beloveds shed  

 time-binding feathers

  and are ready    

for the flight.