The Deal with Death

Death drew its scythe,

Slashed the air,

Absorbed the warmth,

But Tim refused to budge.

Not yet, he said.

Then when? Death drawled.

When…white flowers grow

On trees in early Spring

And there’s the slightest chill,

But still the sun, warming just enough

Yet not too much. And I am old;

Stretched too far across my years,

Feeling thin while at the same time wide.

Knowing that my blood and words live on

Though I cannot.  I’ll be ready then.

Death laughed, smiling through

The empty void within its cloak.

Deal, it said, you’ll be ready then

And I’ll be there.

Tim shook the bony hand

As Death diminished.

He left his bed in tears

Of joy, walking home to see

His family; healthy, whole,

With years and years ahead of him.

Graduations, great-great grandchildren,

Weddings, kisses in the rain were his.

Rolling in the autumn leaves gave way

To making snow angels, putting up the

Christmas tree. But spring was just around

The corner and Tim knew it.

White flowers grew

On trees as he felt the slightest chill,

But still the sun, warming just enough

Yet not too much. And he was old;

Stretched too far across his years,

Feeling thin while at the same time wide.

It’s time, he thought. But where is death?

The hooded specter was nowhere to be seen.

Tim shrugged and started walking toward

The woods. He never noticed he had left

His body far behind.