Maybe the long beard of night
is held forever in the obsidian eyes
of a trapped rabbit waiting
for the wolf, holding in the frantic drum
of its heart the knowledge it must stop, yield
to whatever sanctity comes with
letting everything go, as we all must do someday.
I don’t know if this is true, but I feel
an echo somewhere inside me that says
when faced with imminent death,
a calm cloak will wrap me in sudden extreme
peace in knowing how the course of things
comes to this last unspeakable moment
where questions fall away like those who
escaped fire by plummeting willingly,
like the falling doves of the Triangle Shirtwaist girls
or the brave ones stepping off the edge of the Twin Towers
as their last fierce choice,
with a peace ringing in their heart and looking straight
into the pupils of Mystery claiming them back
as we all must do someday.
J. Pratt-Walter
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