Wild Onions

Uncertainty and worry,
merciless in their reminders,
make me wonder whether
I set an alarm at seventy
to remind me daily that
today could be the day.

And so what if it is?

Is there an unwritten rule
that we should tidy up
before exiting?

Will I sit still, thinking
if I do not move
death will pass me by?

I would rather she come
as I mow the lawn, focused,
delighting in the difference
between cut and uncut,
the fragrance of wild onions
rooting me in the moment.

You say Death isn’t a she?
I beg to differ.
I know the image, the Grim Reaper.

I choose a woman to come for me,
to catch my spirit as my body falls,
joining a circle of women
and together we will rise.

But we do not get to choose,
Only wait.





Poetry by Melinda K Zarate The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 130 times
Written on 2026-06-05 at 04:41

Tags Death 

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Sameen The PoetBay support member heart!
Amazing. I too think death is a she. I wrote a poem about this once.
2026-06-08


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Perhaps it is best not to wait, but blithely go on planning and plotting , doing and making, creating, so that when she comes it will be a surprise.... not one to fear or find terrifying, but one where the excitement of a new adventure is at the forefront of our reaction. I send out thoughts that you have a long and rewarding life, dear Melinda. Blessings, Allen
2026-06-05