We who never know if we will know another year, another day, another hour,

here we are, now, still partaking of the food and the wine and the talk around the table,

still saying:  I love you, still distinguishing, despite the soothsayers,

the snowfall from the silence, still able—by luck or fortune,

by persistence or accident,

to knock-on-wood with gratitude,

still continuing to work with our hands,

to hold up our frail end of our earth,

through one lifecycle into the next.

Each day we circle the gravel path around the stones of the cemetery,

each day we walk around our deaths,

where we are the only bones walking,

the only lungs breathing, the only hearts beating--

We’re learning the terrain of our next life,

the gradation of light, the quality of air,

We know the steepled church white against the clear sky,

We know the field distancing itself into its own darkness.

We’re learning the names of our future neighbors

and attempting to distinguish their deeper silence.

Companion, we are in our dust-time,

our singular moment—

we are in our royalty, our above-ground gratitude,

our once-in-a-lifetime lifetime.

Love, this, such as it is, is our celebrant,

our magic potion, our brief reprieve.

Let’s savor it slowly.