I hope to pen a farewell poem, jisei
(in the Zen-haiku tradition)
my very last day on earth but, I'm thinking --
why wait? This empty page tempts me
to leave it blank beneath the provocative title
but, that's not the story -- not the whole story.
You have given me -- are giving me --
words with which to fill in the blanks,
tainted to be sure, approximated,
strained through the human brain and heart
but, divine in origin, intent and gravity.
I find my voice when You begin to speak
through my throat and fingers. O Lord,
may the last poem we write be love divine
put impossibly into words, my part being
the unread, empty spaces between the lines.
O child of God, pray your death poem to write
someday in the dust beneath your Master's feet.