Noel Canin

A quiet hour.
Bird and breeze vie for balance.
Leaves take the air with all the spirited
solemnity of a tested bark opening
into one final Spring.

And when another
quiet hour comes to find me,
will I agree to know
that this is the final hour,
a last urge towards
some slow opening of the hands,
some flickering curiosity in old eyes,
at this, the ending of a life I’ve called mine.

Will I recognize the moment, savor it in stillness,
sense how the myriad motions and commotions
condense to one pulse of knowing.
Shall I willingly enter the cocoon of nothingness
without certainty of silk or butterfly.

Travel the pulling of the void
Travel the end of all words
The silence that only the living can hear
The loneliness that only the breathing can feel
What is the language of death
if not the consciousness of life.