Poem

How Sees the Angel of Death

The angel of death has kind eyes,
half-smiling eyes,
eyes reaching for a punch line.
They'd be at ease anywhere, those eyes,
watching Monday night football
or children at play
or fireflies across a field on a July night.
They are of the earth, those eyes,
but then again not.
They glow with fierce purpose,
missing nothing,
losing nothing,
and span a different spectrum...
measuring the readiness of worth
in its time.
And you should ring with ripeness,
when true sweetness
condenses about the seed,
his eyes root you.
And he hands you one of two cards,
given your belief:
"Master of endings," says one.
"Midwife," says the other.
They flare cleanly then, those eyes,
as gateway and blade,
severing body's tie to soul,
soul's tie to body,
so each, free,
expresses in the great ground of being.

~ Michael Bratnick