I want to be William Stafford
and write a poem on my last day,
something left on the screen,
something poignant they’ll pick apart
looking for premonitions that I knew
death was downstairs with a foot on the riser.
I’m afraid in reality it’ll be nothing more
than a grocery list (raspberries,
if they look firm), or to-do’s (tuck-point
the chimney) that will remain awhile longer undone.
But if it were a poem,
then my body could ride off in rhythm,
my soul peeking through the rhyme.
Then you might be willing to carry my ashes
all night through the blue canyon
to that place where the stones always shine.