The Brochure

We never spoke, yet somehow,

they knew you belonged to me,

precariously placing you so

opening the door, you’d come

fluttering to the floor, your

pure white lilies adorning

a centerfold of burial options

for life’s final celebrations.

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You arrived with a gust.

Am I ready for this?

Was turning fifty a summons

by destiny’s pigeon post?

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Today began like yesterday,

Sunday’s chores in memory,

“Here Comes the Sun” on repeat,

loads of laundry, spinning

a wash-and-rinse cycle.

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Your knock of nuisance,

dashing half asleep,

jamming toes against the sweep,

a throbbing sting,

opening for a peek.

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Ironically, saving me

from the doldrums,

musing the styles

of my resting coffin.

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The sunlight's morning kiss

on tender toes,

I went for a stroll —

ending my cycle of laundry,

beginning a cycle of pondering

the brochure and my destiny.

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Cover photo URL.