May 18: A Walk, A Lake, A Poem

Thought I'd write a bonus post today, since I've been so negligent about blogging.  

I went for a walk at lunch.  Down to Lake Superior, along the dock front.  A warm breeze was rucking the water, and a pair of geese bobbed in the waves, one goose dipping and dipping its head under the surface.  Everything was blue and shot with light.  And I felt really grateful and alive.

It's still warm, and summer seems to be sitting on top of us right now.  Rain coming tomorrow.

Saint Marty had a sublime afternoon.

And a poem about love and death . . . 

‘Til Death Us Do Part

by:  Martin Achatz

Death falls asleep in her chair
across the room, starts to snore.
It’s a sound I am used to, have heard
for almost thirty years. You see,
Death isn’t some shadow, breathing
down your neck, stalking you
like a water buffalo charging
Francis Macomber. No, Death
has a toothbrush in the bathroom,
leaves rolled-up socks littered
on the bedroom floor. I sometimes
cook Death eggs and toast on Sunday
morning, read her poems at night.
Death knows me. I know Death.
That’s the way it should be,
so that, at the end, when Death says
it’s time to go, I’ll rise from my chair,
put on my jacket, turn off lights,
close the front door, make sure it's locked,
then walk down the street hand-in-hand
with Death. Two kids on their first date.