Death Watch

He is querulous, impatient,
unhappily aggrieved. This life
he is trapped within is not his.
He longs to escape its miserable
unfamiliarity. No solutions offer
themselves to his feverishly
resentful mind. The presence
of his children irritates his
delicate sensibilities, enormously.

Yet he finds himself insisting
he will not be left to wither, alone.
He detests that his grandchildren
see him helpless, too frail to
communicate, his limbs swollen,
drugs wreaking havoc upon his
well-worn body that gave him
good service for 94 years before
succumbing to the ravages of life
finally stumbling at Death's hearth.

He knows life, has lived it well.
He does not know death. It is a
stealthy, indomitable aggressor; he
wants no part of it. He was a passionate
gardener, loved the soil in his capable
hands, its warm texture, fragrance,
fertility. He was adapted by talented
inclination to growing things.

He has outgrown that urge, he
has himself outgrown life. No longer
tending his garden, others tend
him with the avid attention he
once showered on tender shoots and
buds, now neglected. He is steadily
growing, inexorably, toward
the final harvest of life.