Dust by Joani

I wonder when I’ll die.

Probably sooner rather than later.

I have been cradled through my good times

And comforted in the worst.

I wonder if my death will be sore, or frightening or a surprise.

If I have agency or fear.

Will I travel gratefully or fight the unknown,

Lucid or confused.

I wonder if I will be remembered kindly.

Another mote of dust dancing on the sunbeam

That holds my heart.