From the day of your birth
'til you ride in the hearse,
there is nothing so bad
that it couldn't be worse.
— (author unknown)
Poems on Passing
THE POND AT DUSK
A fly wounds the water but the wound
soon heals. Swallows tilt and twitter
overhead, dropping now and then toward
the outward-radiating evidence of food.
The green haze on the trees changes
into leaves, and what looks like smoke
floating over the neighbor’s barn
is only apple blossoms.
But sometimes what looks like disaster
is disaster: the day comes at last,
and the men struggle with the casket
just clearing the pews.
— Jane Kenyon
from Collected Poems
