To Sleep and to Wake — that’s the Magic Game.
I can’t now conceive of myself as dead
As each morn I wake-up still much alive
From a sleep that augurs some night the last.
We chance our gambol where the die is cast.
I was 14 when visiting her home–
Dad’s mother, my grandmother 81.
One night, I watched her comb her long grey hair,
Which she curled in a bun each morn with care..
But the next morning of that combing night,
She’s found dead in bed — nested in her hair.
I still see her, hair combed long to her waist.
Expectation the same — to rise at dawn…
Though Lazarus Combs with a Random Wand.