wiser, I hope,

with every wrinkle that wasn't there before,

with every year gone by, another tally

on the stonework of time.

And the thought comes to me

like an owl slipping through the gloom; 

do they think about death?

Not in passing, I mean,

truly contemplate it—

beyond the lighthearted jests

my father makes

about how long he has.

Or is the humor a mask

he braves for his children.

Do they wonder at it,

are they afraid?

Do they stare out into the darkness of night

and shy away from the mystery?

After all, a light always remains on

in the house they have conceded to die in.

With insulated windows, silence echoes

like the icy halls of a crypt.

Perhaps that is why my father wants to move to Nashville;

to find a place where death has not yet been

playfully welcomed. 

Yet he has scaled mountains

whilst staring peril in the eye.

And my mother, despite her strength unmatched,

I do not know if she considers

getting weaker

with the passage of life. 

These thoughts stir me as I lie abed,

comforted by the blanket of night

draped through my window.

Though down the hall

I, too,

keep a light on.


Author Bio:

Serra Sanzo is a dusty writer from the Sonoran desert, though they are currently living in the mountains of Norther Arizona. Their writing style seeks to inspire one to stop and listen to the heartbeat of the earth and the one in your chest and realize that it’s all the same rhythm; that love echoes through everything. They currently have pieces published in Plants & Poetry Journal.

If you'd like to directly support Serra, you can do so at paypal.me/serraxs1