For a young friend who told me he awoke this morning and remembered we will die.

Peacocks fanning their tails,
toucans proud as their beak,

coats of many colors,
triple-tiered boxes of crayons–

color-a-day to keep the Dead at play,
their hours no longer running out.

Catch the wink of the postal worker
delivering your mail thought lost

from her chariot around the sun.
Consider the light blazing

from the envelope flap tucked
inside itself, not sealed dark

as the shadow of what we imagine.
Read the letter, invitation to

that table set for all:
“Come unto me, children,

swim into my arms, be lifted
from the narrow canal,

its swirling waters,
borne again to life.