Since it seems the consensus that one day I must die,
seems all my friends, too, will go,
at least there be thunder on that day.
And the steady comfort of a summer rain.
Since sound, they say, is the last thing to fail.

Let it be so. But if it cannot be,
if the season is bare of leaves, the death painful
and greed for the world still fiercely with us,
then let someone else be allowed our place on the white couch,
rain falling, the final sounds of a life listened to
and, without fear, let go of: listened to and let go of.