A Poem: Dying

You are dying every day
a little more.

Each day you plant your feet
from bed,
solid on the bedroom floor,

you have died a little in your sleep,
and your solidity
belies the fact a part of you has left.

Each day is a journey on,
making pieces
of your patch-worked quilt –

your own design,
no pattern fixed
or pre-defined.

Yes, each day
you are drawing something
together with a silver thread,

something to travel on with you,
made from everything of meaning
here.

And in your dying every day,
you are opening up more to life,
to continuance.

And everyone to whom you
leave your dying light
will use it to light new wicks.

And when you are ready,
heaven will have fully opened up,
like something you recognise –

something you have been making
with needle and thread,
laid out there for you in wait.

And in the receiving you will see
how life has indeed been
prepared for you ahead,

from the deposits of everything
you have surrendered,
and all the love you’ve spared.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
February 2020

‘The roots of love are eternity,
the leaves of love are creation.’
Rumi


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