I recently found this poem which I wrote over forty years ago when my wonderful, wonderful  mother died. I'm afraid it is very sad.

Limp lids

Half closed

Eyes staring dully from within

The children’s rabbit tossed by the dog

Limp and still and growing cold

Your life

Snapped sharp at the neck

By gentle Jesus.

You reached across a moment ago

Reached from the space in which you roam

And took my hand

Your fingers weak but warm.

And now they’re cold. The hand

Lies heavy in my palm.

Your eyes were closed as you lay drifting

And now they’re open.

But you’re not there.

In dying, you’re so beautiful.

Your lips, curved almost in a smile,

Are parted, but no breath stirs.

In dying, you are beautiful.

I, as a child, no world without you,

The only beauty in it there

Because of you.

And so afraid I’d wake

And find you gone.

And now, you have.

And see –

Look –

Feel –

You’re here. In me. And even now

You’re beautiful.

Your gift of death is beautiful.