When I’ve drawn my final breath
and fall into the arms of death,
I’ll tell my life I’m through with it.
I do not give a single whit
for what becomes of all those things:
poems and paintings, bracelets, rings.
I mop my soul of all such whims
to rise free of my earthly limbs
on wings of whatever is left
to give my being lift and heft.
What if those things I’ve striven for
have merely been a bottom drawer?
What if it opens to set free
whatever there is left of me
and there is nothing else inside?
What if the whole of me has died?
What part of me is made to last?
Have I an essence that’s more vast
than accomplishments, adventures, things?
Some remainder that will give me wings?
Is there woven within me
something that will be a key
that will unlock the galaxy
that’s sleeping in the heart of me?