You are dying,

ninety growing on fifty. Absurdly
I wish you a sweet death
knowing otherwise,
at an hour when birds chatter
glory in the bottle washer tree
and swifts stitch blessing over the city,
feather and wing of all avians
homeward bound to the islands
defying red hawk,
cramped spaces
and the molecule.

May your breath pass into light
when sun blossoms gold
on the horizon,
quickening beatitude.

May your breath mingle
with all the tides of creation,
lungs singing as the earth spins
rose and purples on the horizon
for the long watches of the hours
in their slow journey toward night,
your body folded
in their pocket, a secret.

Sleep, beloved friend.
The moon is a lemon wedge in the sky.
Here is a coin for the journey.