Autumn Poemn

For Benson, Who is Getting Old Too Soon

Keeping in mind
your otherness
your not-me-ness
I try to hold you
the way tree and water and grass
hold sky.
No grasping there, no force
just awareness
a mirror serene
or storm-ridden
or wired with cracks of frost.

But most likely, when you die
I will howl as if I am the dog
and you are the person.

This is the practice of letting go
before the actual going.
In every living thing
the kernel of death;
in every dead thing
the seed of life.

Still, if you could live a day longer than I,
I would prefer that.