It’s almost like being new-born again —
Only now it’s old-born back through the womb;
Death’s grab of umbilical’s other end:
To retract a life to no longer roam.
As yanked-out of nothing from which one came,
All creatures are yanked-back to disappear —
So, we know, some wind or snuff takes our flame
And birthdays come without another year.
The strangest time when one’s sleep could not wake
From any night, nodding-off, or deep nap
A time going forth to that take of fate
Never knowing that turn that tears the map.
This strangest time breaks each day through the night
But the time will come — our retraction by death;
Even now’s umbilical’s stretched taut and tight:
Flames flutter – yet we stoke our hearths of breath.