Dying is a cold white room
Where we sit and wait,
Undisturbed by life,
While every voice falls silent
And every movement becomes still.
I leave the room because I can,
And the person lying there.
To walk down the fluorescent hall,
Open the door I am allowed
And find that it is June outside.
The evening there is soft and warm
The air pregnant with thunderstorms,
Alive with the voices of spring,
The peepers and red-winged blackbirds,
And the scent of the lilac trees.
I return to the cold white room
And find the room is empty now.
But if there’s one thing that I know
It’s that wherever you have gone
It’s on the June-side of the door.
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