death poetry

there is an hour of peaceful rest
she must go back, she said
tripping up, falling down
who loves the rain
the sun is up
who is the runner in the skies
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
i loved a woman
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
when the hours of day are numbered
see, they return
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
of sun nor stars