dear, sweet death:

like the web that twists around the branches
of a drooping willow that doesn't move,
your touch holds me carefully with a silver
that i am not worthy of defiling.

and the web hangs from the slender frames
of the willow, and flutters softly
when the final exhale of the ferns
whispers past on silents wings.

if you were to brush your hands
against my skin one last time,
and put me to rest with the sweetest smile,
i would release my spirit and fall into your arms;

and if your pearly tears were a pretence,
i would smile back and wipe them away,
and rub the salt into my wounds
so that you may cry for my pain instead.

do not try to hide yourself from me;
it is now i who hang from the willow-branch,
and your hands hold my neck; gentle hands,
that touch beauty and make it theirs.

when the candles go out in my eyes,
take me down, and place me in a boat
made of willow branches. the deep
cavern of your eye is my final destination.

halt the stream for another moment: please
press your sweet mouth against my forehead,
and welcome me home again. then
will i pass by, like many before me, and many more to come.