written while reading a dying priest's poem (last revised on 6/14/08)

all i know is i
expected beauty
in his description
of dying.
why was he smiling?

a pastor has a gift,
i thought as i rewound the words
verse by verse. read it again
from the beginning

"to read this poem,"
he writes,
"remember you are dying, too."

and if we are all dying,
why waste words on moonlight?
and it was as if he were reading my mind.
even a priest, in the midst of it
looks into the face of death and says
not yet.
not yet.

he opened the book back up
and said read it, this time
as if it is your dying heart's last wish.

i am here at my desk,
pen in hand, hoping to create a word for this.
there isn't one. i read your poem again
and when i'm done, i look and there it is.

the moon is making love!
why did it never tell me
it's secret? why won't it tell
me the ones you hide in your words?
here i am.
alone,
afraid,
alive.
and after forty seven years on earth,
i still have so much to learn.
death is a teacher,
and in the end, the student
learns through layers
over and over and over again.

(this is a very rough draft, not sure it is ready to be here so it will probably be revised and revised for awhile).