John Muir died alone
Thinking of Alaska,
Gasping for air
In a hospital bed
Far from his beloved Sierra,
Far from the family ranch,
Far, far from where he had first known
God’s love,
The inadequacy of man.    

We all do—  

Die far from what we love—  

Although we carry it with us
The way men used to carry pictures:
Their sweetheart,
Their children,
Their home.  

We forget them
Until the day the wallet is emptied
And they fall to the floor,
Neglected but beautiful.